You know I live quietly, in an archaic
timelessness; on the second level
of a three-storeyed apartment block, with
a ground level and a dysfunctional lift. The
street I am on, is misnomed Market Street; the market
is actually on the adjacent street. I live
quietly, like a bumble bee, going about its business,
only its sound is apparent to those nearing it. For,
I yell, sometimes, in reaction to physical pain! I don’t
know if bumble bees make honey, but
I certainly do know that I have ambrosial blood!
That is the moot point of various factions
wanting to learn about the infinite information
running in my veins. So, they come knocking
at my doors – cops et al, sometimes at odd hours!
I have been incarcerated twice, for brief periods of
15-20 days! Plus have been injected with that
God-forsaken antipsychotic Depo injection four times
already; and, of course, the invariable times I have been
interrogated by shrinks!!! I haven’t said it – but they have
suggested that my mind is being read by unseen forces.
I just point blank tell them that I care not; that I am quite
capable of taking care of myself! Look, I felt cynical,
but humoured when, while being incarcerated, I was
interrogated by psychiatrists accompanied by mind-readers,
and was told (falsely) that the young mind-readers (psychics)
were understudies. Can I be deceived, though I am silent?!!!
You know, I know, everybody (all the factions, at least) want
to read my mind. Of course, they like to suggest that I need
mental health treatment (the system has conveniently ordered
that upon me), to garner their implicit designs on me
(laughably but painful to me)! You know, this apartment No. 11
on Market Street that I live in, looks North-west into a sea of
low-lying rooftops, and I feel invigorated and cheerful by the
height of my beautiful inviolate self, and my invisible almonry.
Because I’ve made sacrifices, silently, for one and all, as far
as I can remember; and, sadly, none acknowledge my generosity,
but to avail of it lecherously for their own capital gain!
I live quietly on Market Street, looking away from the Market;
And despite the almoner that I am, I am not
even aware whether I’m paying the rent or not for living here!
It should have well been my own property and infinitely much more
in possession for me, after all the immense eternal sacrifice
I’ve undertaken and the incalculable price I’ve paid!
But I laugh, you know, not sardonically, but with sagacity at my
poverty, and at the perpetrators who hold me unjustifiably
and illegitimately hostage!!!!
montes-musings.blog 