Closing Time

I was never good at writing about the truth in all it's explicit severity, which was probably the reason I started writing poetry in the first place. A sugary coat of vivid visions scatterred over scarred dreams and held together with some eloquence helped me swallow the hurt of a failed relationship at first, and then, it eased it's way into the possibly false notion of talent.

I really don't think of myself anything special, but I soon found a virtual audience that was kind enough to let me continue dreaming. I found that there wasn't much difference between courage and confidence, and I realized I had a bit of both. One thing led to another, and it was too late by the time I bechanced upon the conclusion that it was the art that held me hostage. So much so, infact, that I didn't even care about the generally accepted principles that governed this branch of art, I knew what I needed to know about Iambs, Trochees, Spondees, Dactyls, Double dactyls and what have you, but never adhered to any specific structures. I might even have created my own meterical foots for all I care. It was personal, although I seldom wrote merely for personal gain.

Although as I progressed, it seemed evident that my predilection for orotundity and grandiloquence will never feel the need to cover up or hide under any false pretence. Neither did I ever feel the need to justify the befuddling setups that I built most of my poems over. It was rather unfortunate that my brand of articulation earned me a reputation of being too "pretentious".

"There's something quite wrong about what you write and how you write it, but I just can't seem to put my finger on it", said an online reviewer once. I knew exactly what he meant.

Something I wish I had known earlier on in my life is that you can't improvise imagination, it always screws things up when you try to squeeze a confession out of muse. But anyhow, poetry made it all seem worthwhile for a whole year, and now: one mental breakdown, two severe (writer's) blocks, and more than a hundred poems later, I bid thee adieu.

For the usual reasons, of course. I need a break, time for myself, to rethink about my life and get away from this glaring monstrosity that had me enslaved for most of my adolescence. That I shall return is an artist's promise, and I always keep my promises whenever I can. There will be those of you who will appreciate a tear drenched goodbye and a hug or maybe even a goodbye poem at this point, but I only have these lines that Rob Thomas sang to give to them:

"So gather up your jackets,
and move into the exits,
I hope you have found a friend,
Closing time,
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end".

Bye.