The Brave Mister

 

Brave Mister
photo credit @ownherworld

 

I come in many shapes and sizes.

To some, I am a man of charisma; the kind that stifles fear and electrifies the will.

To others, I am the biggest loser; the man with a balding sense of humour.

To the art of words, I am her brave Mister; the fool that tried to tame her and failed.

I do not claim that Poetry loves me in the same manner, but tis the love Shakespeare proclaimed.

A love affair with the sublime that only ends in one way: when the writer stops writing.

I was three when I first met my muse — my Juliette of poetry?

Sparks flew when she spoke in metaphors and I in broken vows and sentences.

I made a mockery of myself; what with the diaper and the lack of sophistication?

So I strengthened my acquisition with the world; I learnt the language of Men and Bots.

I went to pre-school.

I learnt to colour in between the lines to impress her. I was fervently in love with my muse, but I could not express her. I fell sick; my muse ignored me still.

From an early age to adolescent, I buried myself in television. I let the ambient box sing me to sleep. I let it erase my talents. I dragged through life and death — then back through life. I did things I would never trade my breath for — like learning to dance with both feet. The magic was missing. There was no thrill, no spunk.

Till I read ‘My Black Is Beautiful’ by Yolanda Mabuto.

If admitting that I cried means I’ll be stripped of my right to be a man, then set me free. I was revitalised of an energy I once knew; I was alive again. And I felt my muse blink.

Ever collapse to the sensation of being home after a long trip?

I felt the same; I felt the rush of belonging to something bigger than self — of belonging to Juliette.

I read more and she spoke a little louder. We dined over Jane Austen’s passages, laughed like children in Chuck Lorre’s ‘Vanity Cards’ and survived horrors in Stephen King’s ‘Nightmares and Dreamscapes’.

The more I marched over the terrains of literature, the closer I came to my muse.

Soon, we became one; we became night and day.

And with a kiss, she vanished.

She said I was ready.

Ready for what?

Ready to write.

 

 

A Written Letter To All Men:

 

98tolife.wordpress.com
Photo Credit: Rational Male

We call ourselves kings in all that we do,

in all that we say,

We call ourselves warriors,

rebels against the tyranny of Life,

against the slithering hand of injustice,

Yet,

as long as the Earth spins in the whirlwind of reality,

as long as the Moon paints itself across the night’s sky,

We will continue to,

fail,

Unless we cast out,

fear,

and find,

purpose,

the core of your masculinity,
the heart that strings ideals and visions,
and bleeds,

purpose,

your right of passage,
the road less travelled,
your march to freedom,

purpose,

 the light that illuminates,
a pillar for humanity,

purpose,

your divine Providence,
listen to the calling,

purpose,

the hand of god in the life of Jesus,
the immortal speeches of Luther,

purpose,

reserved only for the brave,
the bold,
the magnanimous,

it wakes humanity from sleep,
slow hymns of a utopia,
listen,

please,

listen,

purpose,

to the,

lost boys,

searching,

in the abyss,

do not,

do not,

do not,

give up,

till you,

till you,

find,

purpose.