Sitting silently, hearing the lecturer talk,
A sense of alienation creeps over me
With gripping fear ,as his voice fades, I head into
oblivion .
My hands often meandering to the back pages of my
notebook.
It is my
haven , my escape , my pretence.
I write there.
No, not the empirical formulas and despot laws,
Whose existence though not unquestionable,
But , are a complication to prove.
I write about what I cannot speak of then,
My life , my love , my belief , my passion.
It is here , in the rear end of the notebook,
I melt my mask and spill out my inky soul .
Yet somehow I keep up the pretence of comprehending
Whatever it is , the educator is dictating,
his voice remains unheard to my ears.
Perhaps our masquerading is perpetual ,
Even when we are most vulnerable
We pour our heart out to some , yet repress it from
others simultaneously.
Keeping up the act.
But , I digress from the epicentre of our dialogue.
I write in rebellion , to the tyranny around me.
Not of fascists or monarchs , but of savages,
Who though seemingly powerless are the most fearsome
They call themselves society.
Disappointed , no , disgusted rather I am
In the nurturing of the virgin minds by these oppressors.
Where Darwin is despicably forced down their throats
Not to live , but to survive
Ravaging the pillars of humanity,
To capitulate their sense of free will and maturity.
My revolt is against such autocracy of society,
Hypocrisy in the face of democracy, a fable of the
years gone by.
This mutiny of mine is to rise for the end ,
Not with slogans but with ink,
Not with swords but with words
Not a mob , but a sole rebel
For revolution like fire needs a spark.
Nonconformist I am for I repudiate their principles,
My revolution is my escape
Through the pages to my haven,
Obliterating reality , phasing out whenever I face
such tyranny.
My hands often meandering to the back pages of my
notebook.
