I sit in solitude within the confines of this designated abode. The blank walls shoot glacial stares at me. Unsympathetic, untouchable. And when touched, they remain inclement. Cold; the temperature of their sentiments of having to contain the importunate demands from my mind to think. Think Natasha! My ideas they bounce against the walls of this refuge. One would think the continuous bombardment of these particles of thoughts would culminate in some exothermic reaction. Why the walls remain cold, unkind…..? It is a wonder isn’t it? Think Natasha! I think. I am subdued by these conscious thoughts. Think about what, I ask? This habitual ritual of carefree, undirected conscience, it reminds me of Rudyard Kipling’s famous poetry ‘If’. He says ‘ If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim’. Therein my answer lies – why the walls remain perpetually indifferent. I think of nothing but ‘to think’. Manumit me, I cry out. To much disdain, the walls are as deaf as the ears of God. Nay, but God listens with His Heart.
And after all my words; the hyperbole; the poetry; the submissions; the admissions; the confessions; the drivel; – Did I not ask you, do you hear the plangency of this contingent (me)?
If I were a chalice sat where you dine, what is in me? Do I leave you a puritan state or intensely intoxicated? Will you live or will you die?