TEN POUNDS

“How much do you bench?”

“Two eighty five. How much do you bench?”

I’m not the gymnasium person. And I know I could be found there almost every day, but that doesn’t need to, and that doesn’t mean that I’m a gym-person. I’m more like one who’s trying to get out of it, you know, lifting things is not my thing, and I’ve never lifted anything considerable, only encouraging discouragement every time I try. From everyone around, that is, I’m not a dejected soul drowning my sorrow over here, I’m sorry if you’ve started to think that this is yet another “I’m all alone” post, it’s not, anyway. Always had an eye on frailty, always thought ‘fragile’ spelt ‘amazing’ and felt amazing, because then I’d break before I break, and that’s bullshit actually, I made that up just a second ago, so it’s not like that’s a driving force of sorts.

“And you would seem so frail

in the cold of the night,

when the armies of emotion

go out to fight…”

Standing amidst weights and measures and sweat that would cool away if I stood still for too long, I don’t think it’s a place enough to romanticize, or to start a chain that starts far from where I was, and there was this out-of-the-way reminder of this Dylan song called ‘Buckets of Rain’, an odd blend of groan and subtle folk-guitar, and emblematic words, I felt I ought to write something on those lines, and it didn’t take long to fit ‘Ten Pounds’ instead of ‘buckets’, although I’m sure that none today would weigh that much, this said ignoring the steel buckets of yesterday. I guess they survive even now, but serve to be nothing but today’s reminders of yesterday, so it’s technically a peek through the periscope than the big picture itself, so I guess I’d not dwell on that a lot.

I don’t know much about wars, heck, I’ve never been in one. Never been hit, either, so I’d rather not pretend. Haven’t gone hungry, wanting to eat but having nothing to eat, haven’t shivered, wanting heat but not getting any, but I’ve always felt this: They’re shitting on us. And how do I know that, I mean I’ve got a nose, I’m told I’ve got a keen sense of smell and I could write about the stench of socks without getting affected by them, and I’m even living in this world amidst all this shit, and that makes me professionally qualified, you know, a green signal that always burns. A welcome sign that’s never painted on, an archway built for me.

“Ten pounds of peace

that you tried to buy, with

nothing to buy with:

a dinner delight, tonight;

ten pounds of wheat

from the hunger-deprived,

a ten left behind,

and the ten that she lied about”

Don’t break your head over this, it’s something I had fun writing.