A cynical old man acknowledges his birthday very grudgingly
I try hard not to be cynical. But I think that’s my terrible gift to myself. Life had a hand to play (of course!), bringing me people and platitudes in equal measure, to leave me nicely acidic for a lifetime. Not that I don’t fight against my worst instincts, read tomes to learn how to return to a crystal-clear state of trust, a kind of knowing innocence, measured but complete in itself. But it’s easier said than done. The entirety of my being screams “Alert!” whenever I see a good deed being done. ‘What’s in it for him?’ is the instinctive response. It’s almost as if I’m done with believing there is anything which is simply selfless, guileless, truly giving.
And then I stop myself and think - how can I be chained to a thinking where nothing is lost and nothing is gained, but oh I pay such a cost! Go to hell with Sophocles who said “Trust dies but mistrust blossoms “.
I want, again and again, to be the fool who gets fooled daily, hurt hourly, and the injured soul who has to be picked up drunk from the narrow alley every night. But be the one who doesn’t lose hope in humanity even as friends lie, colleagues use, relatives conspire, and outsiders ingratiate.
It’s better to die innocent with one’s heart full of the sky, then bitterly, much before the universe closes in.
The Poem
Thus goes my birthday gift. A kind
of recognition, an acknowledgment of
existence, beyond the realm of grudge,
the daily drudge, when someone finally
takes me in her arms. And that,
if you really consider, is getting somewhere,
even if it’s merely an annual ritual. I can feel
sorry for myself - or elated (glass half-full
or half-empty, and all that), as I then busy myself
to go for my morning jog. I scroll my emails
and find my insurance company wishing me
good health and a long life. Of course!
Honestly, I’m too tired for birthdays, and
thoughts of beginnings. Everything is so fleeting,
so am I. I don’t even care what I leave behind.
So. I’m good if the gift is only someone
calling me kind, funny, intelligent. That fills me up.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, I will get a slice of
chocolate cake this evening, unappended to
unsonorously-sung wishes. Or maybe I’m emptying
my small cache of wishes all too soon, just too soon.
A Thought
Poetry may be convoluted in construct, but it’s rarely insidious in nature. You may not agree with its sentiment, but it will rarely tell a lie. That’s why, instinctively, you may not carry the poem home, but you will never leave it defenceless on the kerb.
Oh Sunil! Such sweet confessions, the language is so honest its heartwarming ❤
Wonderful