No Horn Please

Indian Poets, Poetry in India

The hardest part of being an artist in the 21st century is the struggle for ideas.

We put words into meanings and what if there is no more meaning to convey?


Now, this begets the question, why don’t I have anything to say unto you,

whilst there is no single moment without conversation within me?

The only answer I could come up with is hopelessness.


Because you see after centuries of saying and listening, planning and executing, fighting and dying,

after all the warmongering and peace treaties, I’m pretty sure you still honk at the traffic signal when you’re late.


We are defined by the structure we chose to put ourselves in,

the all-encompassing conviction that the reality you choose to perceive is the only one.

The curse of selective perception is your life itself,

it defiles your ability to understand people who don’t belong to your system.

Your idea of culture limits itself in this cage.


Everything works here based on the rules of your system, money is dictating experience

Your expensive concert tickets, your fancy holiday in Vegas, your long-awaited Eurotrip

Now when you pay for an experience you mutilate the very nature of true experience.

You pay a bunch of people who pay a bunch of other people to drag them out and tailor a sublime perception

which you choose to gobble up as a life-changing experience. Paid perception, my friends is not experience.

True experience goes hand in hand with anarchy because order eliminates wild probabilities.


Now you can choose to discard these as the words of a failed man who couldn’t play by the rules of the system, pity me but

being a being with zero knowledge about what is the point of his existence, I’ve already opted out of this game.


You can call me a cynic and I won’t deny. Because my cynicism, unlike many others, is a true experience, it makes me miserable without having to pay for it.

My misery is one of the few things I feel for real.

I choose to live in this misery because if my passion drives my efforts and my efforts are measured by my pay grade, I’ve failed my passion in itself.

I’ve quantified a beautiful thing of infinite possibilities with mud stricken paper notes.


You toil away in peace hoping that your legacy lives on, but you see money never dictated legacy.

How many of you remember the richest man of the 17th century? Money dies with the time you lose to gain it.


Inspect the reality that you have so fondly indulged in, search for experience and do not pay for perceptions.

Stop striving to make yourself the superior copy of everyone else, because in the end a copy my friend is always a copy.


Because the only thing that constrains us in reality is time, so disrupt your reality, step out of it and bask in the light of anarchy.

Laugh, cry, fight, intimidate, fall in love, empathize and for once feel the world stripped off  of your convictions

And then maybe you’ll understand, and then maybe you stop honking at the red light.


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