In the State of Stuttering Agony

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Jannatul Ferdous Tulona

I see some sand still in the corners
of my benzodiazepine infused pupils,
that I do not bother to wash off.
Instead, I rinse and throw up,
a headache
with it,
followed by undigested words from yesterday’s argument
and a few silent screams.
You look nice, I compliment the person in the mirror
just to be polite;
he has three new pimples on his forehead
and a funny thin moustache (ugly). 

I return to where I spend most of the day staring up, thinking,
racing, my radioactive mind
decaying per hour at the cost of antagonised thoughts,
noticing how
the ceiling fan is a loyal servant
with the perfect discipline; he makes just enough noise
at times
to make me deaf;
at times to make me some sounds,
a metallic hum of sanity amidst the never-ending chaos,
and I think about right and wrong (why?)
a bit too much for a mundane man
with too much time in his hands.

The conflict keeps me busy, addicted,
perhaps most conveniently, distracted,
therefore I construct a hypothesis,
what if, wrong is right and right is wrong,
in a hypothetical world where the definitions are turned upside down
almost like the one that we live in
where they both mean nothing
where right, by textbook definition, is truth
that dies by the end of a fictional book, 
and wrong is as real as the stain on a torn note of ten,
slipped slyly into my hands between other change
by a (filthy) bus conductor.

But then, the hypothesis is made null for too realistic a touch
and I think about many more crucial insanities like this,
still sometimes
the maladies of the mundane world
seep through my walls,
bills and prices shot through the roof;
slaps and kicks hurled at an adjacent room;
the occasional whistles of the man who sells brinjals at a half rate
that lure no one but my stale headache
from six storeys above
and I think, at dismay, how much benzodiazepine exactly,
could kill them all and put me into peace (or vice-versa?)
Then again, it’s just a thought, among my other insanities
that has courage for only a moment, and instead
I spite a constipated curse “Idiot!” to who knows whom,
and return to bask in my thoughts — thoughts too wise and

Jannatul Ferdous is a procrastinator by day, and a poet by night.


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