Learnings "Post" Defining Failures

By Aarti Kukreja

In moments of bacchanal, we hem in the egocentrism

Barring a few.

We don't really espy beyond its circumference

Those breathings, the endless chortles, the congruous powwow

The gung-ho of each other, the junctures & the purest form of sentiment;

The mythomania of it all

Pumps everywhere; euphoria.

You hanker it would never end

You conjure it not to.

Par contra, man is coerced not in those times;

But when the gold flakes of dust smudges his face

The bloody wounds from the abetment sting

And mud is its only elixir

There are no shadows,

No extended hands to raise you up

And above you is the clear blue azure.

It is in that cusp you find yourself;

That clout extends you to recognize your inner hulk

As your palms dig into the earth

Your wrist locks for antithesis

Your forearms strain each string of tendon

Your shoulder and chest buck your collapsed gravity

And your trunks tout auxiliary support

You might not upright at once

You might even honor this unbecoming

And saunter a little longer

But when you think it’s the term;

And when it is actually the time

You boulder yourself together

With the science from the laceration

The writings of the mud

The anxiolytic from the shadowless vale

And you walk afresh.

Somewhat lost, sometimes looking back or gazing up,

But mainly constructed and fated to move nothing else but forward.

By Aarti Kukreja