The Boredom of Being (Alive)

I was born a few days back. Nothing happened yesterday. Nothing happened today. Tomorrow I'll be dead.

I've read a few books now and then. Visited some places, got drunk and got high as a horse, fell in love, waited, watched movies, read some books again. Still nothing happened. Wrote poems anxiously, addressed to everyone, but no one in particular, someone read them, someone cried, most of them didn't give a shit. Nothing happened.

You saw me somewhere in between. You looked at me. I thought I waited for something. Nothing happened.

Trains passed. Moments rushed away. I screamed in false agony. Books felt like a lie, Economics lied, Jesus and Marx both lied, my parents lied when they first thought the idea of me, Solitude lied, Romanticism was a lie, everything went by but nothing actually happened.

Night descends. I am older now. I forgot to be wise. I forgot to be kind. I forgot to BE just where I was sitting, watching sunset or the nothingness flowing through my eyes. I wait for the Sun to rise. Nothing ever happens. 

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