The Rich Vegetarian

An Examined Life

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Category: Poetry (page 1 of 2)

Freedom/Isolation

A balloon flies free, untethered by a strong hand,
It isn’t too different for a mind that likes solitude
The days are long, the moments flow along nicely

It is quiet and spacey

No voice beckons, no company calls.

It feels nice, then quiet, then too silent,

and I often think: when does the notion of freedom bleed into isolation?
When does the feeling of warm comfort become a strain?

The quiet space starts collapsing within,
Then the only sound is the silent one, that feels loud and blaring and deafening.

I wonder: what about the future? Will it be quiet too?

Is this my personality, a bad mood, a time-of-the-month? A hormonal shift, a moon cycle play?

And then it begins again, another day, another evening by the window, wandering in half-thought, half-soliloquy, full-___.

And Life Exists Where?

And where does life exist, really?

In the daily routines and rituals,
checklists and calendars and errands and shopping lists,
weekend classes, gym schedules, drop off and pick up, buy milk and groceries and bread.

time to meet friends and family, it is Diwali and then Christmas

In the chopping of vegetables and taking out of trash,
cooking and cleaning and dishes and laundry and lawn tasks.

In marking time on iPhones and paper desk calendars and Outlook.

Or in the endless time stretching infinitely in my mind, in my head,
Wondering where the waves go, the seas part, the wind drops, and the birds call out
Wondering about the horizon and the space it spans, the sky and the blue depths above and below.

the quiet beaches in my mind, miles of sand, not a soul around

thoughts arise and subside, the elements bearing witness to my endless ideas and imaginations,

and then it’s back to chopping vegetables again.

Is it in between, in both, nowhere?

The World that Beckons

There’s a world that beckons inward,
A space of quiet, non-threatening, plain and clean

I started going there as a child, I think?
I felt non-judged, felt like myself
(Whatever “myself” meant at that point in space and time)

I thought everyone had this kinda place
Surely, everyone needed it?

It took me a while before I got it:
That space was my own, my gift, a place I crafted for myself, maybe before I was even born
For refuge, for respite, a place to sleep and dream and let the tears flow

I still go there
every day
It is my own

And I like its neutrality

As a child, I felt it welcoming
Now I appreciate neutrality even more

Walls are pale grey-blue
Air flows in and out
There are windows, but none really
I feel the sun, the light and warmth

I hear the water

Is it a beach? A silent forest? Atop a mountain?

Are those clouds floating by, misting over?

Birdsong, chai, sounds of silence.