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By Saptarshi Debnath

I know not what I felt

At that exact moment-

I didn't have a point of reference.

I knew not if others

Had felt the same

Before me,

Or will face the same

Emotions in the future.

In a way,I was haughty -

Of my individualism,

Shunning the inherent

Plurality of existence.

In a moment,

My carefully curated persona

Fell apart,

With bared fangs and

The ugliness underneath-

Trying to claw its away

Out of the abyss

Where it had long

Been suppressed.

My only Solace

Remained in the

Rumination of a day gone by.

My stupidity coming

Back and forth,

Laughing at my

Now naked darkness.

I laid there,

Thinking of how and why,

Van Gogh pulled the trigger,

Why Sylvia Plath

Put her head inside the oven-

Perhaps it was to silence

The voices inside their head,

Which now seemed to me,

My greatest critic,

My most acerbic friend

My guilty secret.

My eyes deceive me now,

As they have done forever-

As Betelgeuse died

Scattered into a million fragments,

All we got

Was the ghost of a dead Star.

My other senses know no bounds,

No feelings of remorse or


That the insidious plague (which)has

Consumed me from within,

Was but my own design.

And I,still convinced of

My individuality,

Think,nay,am convinced,

My suffering trumps all-

The plague of indifference

The most damning thing there is.

And we are all dancing in it,

Not wanting to hold hands,

But all I want,

Is to break free

From the order of reason;

To the cult of chaos-

To feel,for once,

Something which Is

Perfectly imperfect-

My own design.

By Saptarshi Debnath

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