for myself, will I be happy?
Like a village I was supposed
to have grown up in,
a father who taught me
how to fix fishing nets,
a mother who waited by
the window every evening.
Perhaps I need something
I can point to when someone
asks why I am the way I am.
Like a childhood I don't
clearly remember.
Like how I was once a
reckless boy who ran away
from something and found
everything, or how a quiet
child who learned too early
that leaving was easier
than staying.
Perhaps there was a girl
I loved before I knew what
love was, and perhaps she
left with enough sadness
to explain everything I
do now.
Perhaps it would be more
convenient if I were a
shepherd, who lost his
parents early and later
self-taught singing by
rehearsing to the sheep.
Every self-inflicted wound
would have a sheepish origin
that way. Every habit would
have a nomadic elevation.
Every passing moment
of loneliness would have
been simply playing flute to
the flock in the name of
character development,
and it would have been
perfect if I had attained
low-key enlightenment by
a hut while the sheep
ate grass unnecessarily.
But alas! I wasn't born
in a fishing village.
My parents are alive.
No lover left me with
crippling pain and the
sheep I wish to have as
emotional support are
often juicy mutton on
my plate.
So here I am reclined on
a chair with legs on top of
the table. Pen in a hand
with blank pages that
stare back.
I overthink all the
possibilities to make my
present version happy,
but the only respite seems
to be a pretentious cup
of black coffee.
But the ghost of my
overly concerned mother
knows what I need is a
good cup of tea and deep
down I know mom's chai
makes me happy.