DEAD INSIDE -SWATHI MADHAVAN

SWATHI MADHAVAN

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DEAD INSIDE -SWATHI MADHAVAN

What does it feel like when all of your dreams are crumbling in front of your eyes?

My lungs are clear, and I breathe ashes and dust.

My heart – my betrayed heart – beats in a steady beat.

What am I supposed to think? These words are insufficient.

Looking through these eyes, writing with these fingers, and inhaling via these lungs.

Bleed by laying your heart bare on the table.

It's not enough after that, with my inky life-blood dripping down the table.

My soul gets sliced to shreds, and it's never enough.

How can any set of words be more authentic, sincere, and vulnerable than this?

We are replicas; we remake ourselves in the imaginations of deceivers.

To mark my pride, honour, and soul once more. To think of myself as a number, a lesser being.

I'm exhausted.I'm speechless, floating – or rather, drifting – in this void, this place between worlds

. The wooden floor is firm beneath my feet, and the light from the ceiling is bright and cool.

What else is there for me to do but describe? Words have such little meaning.

It's a rebuilding, a construction. Smokey memories, as frail as those summer days

I've envisioned and reimagined a thousand times.

The aroma of grass, the sun, and a summer flock clinging to moist flesh. Which of these is the actual deal?

Fragmentation isn't conducive to a good story. Sequences, storyline, and purpose are all important.

What kind of irrational wandering is this?

Insubstantial. Inconsequential.

These fish-like hollow eyes stare at the ceiling without blinking.

You are followed by the stench of death. And how well-versed are you in the subject of death?

I can create a thousand shattered images. They float away, incomplete and insubstantial.

Every iteration, every sketch. All of it is untrue, and all of it is true.

All of this is insufficient.

- SWATHI M