My Little Pillow

I am the sole inhabitant of my hollow sphere.

Secluded by those around, my voices they never hear.

They call me the nerd-  reserved, detached, isolated,

I'm the Wallflower, in this group of social butterflies.

Their gossips repel me, their chitchats ring in my ears

Like a bitter reflection of world's boredom...

So I rant, when I'm all alone

In my little black room, on my little black laptop—

My portal to world's suffering,

My TARDIS to a Universe that needs repair.

I know what to expect.

I am a critic

Of the world in general.

Critics raise eyebrows,

And I raise thousands every day...

Hate mails and threats are my milk and biscuit.

They welcome me every morning,

Chirping a cacophony of rotten slurs,

Showering me with their one-minded opinions,

Bestowing upon me their malice 

And general disregard for the different-minded.

But when things get this rough,

When my tolerance crescendos into “I've had enough!”

I have beside me

My little pillow.

Often with running noses and scampering tears, 

When I feel like I'm done facing my worst fears,

He speaks to me.

He speaks to my Tyler Durden. 

He speaks for me, just to lessen my burden,

For I am Jack's frozen stream of thought,

Always sought after in this barren garden ridden with the drought

Of guilt, remorse and sorrow

All clubbed into a package of juvenile depression of today and tomorrow.

But that is the willing suspension

Of disbelief I am vying to vouch for.

'Cause at least my little pillow keeps trying

To console me when I'm crying.

So when I stutter, stumble, shake and shudder

Under the ‘substantial’ scale of simple sentiments of spurious sin,

That I suffer from carrying on my stiffened shoulders,

My man is on my side.

He is the island to my marooned sailor 

He is the Magic Mirror to my Wicked Queen.

In this riot of doldrums that breaks my conscience every now and then,

He comes as a Messenger of Peace, cutting through all the rampage in between...

He has scars on his body,

A whole lot of torn ends stitched every which way.

People lose control over their temper after a certain point;

I am no different, I lose mine everyday!

My rage channels my hands,

As I struggle to keep my actions under control.

Yet I fail all the same,

As they tear hastily through that poor, desolate lump of cotton.

But does he once utter a moan?

Does he ever cry over his repeated assault by my hands?

Does he ever remark about his cuts and bruises?

No.

He is becalmed, content, pacified,

Like the daybreak on the beach,

Consuming all darkness that lay before him.

For he is my Eternal Sunshine,

Each pray'r accepted, each wish resigned…

I wonder

If things will ever stay the same.

These are changing times.

I know

That I shall bid farewell to him

In the near future.

Things change.

And friends leave.

Life doesn't stop for anybody.

But as they say,

To say goodbye, is to die a little.

Fathoming his loss has left me brittle…

What shall I do after him?

Do I have the strength to deal with my demons all alone?

Do I have the power to conquer my spirits all on my own?

I was the soprano, and he my baritone.

Do I have the voice to prevail over all vices today and agone?

I need help

In form of Will and Resolve.

I need a whetstone

To sharpen my broken sword with true grit.

But most importantly,

I need a little bit of magic.

A hand, a hug,

A pat on the shoulder,

A sound that would say,

“Son, it's alright, it's just another boulder.

Roll over and make merry!

For life can always be colder.”

I need a little bit of magic.

A push, a tug,

A gust of wind,

A scream that would say,

“Son, why fear from petty words coming from pettier mouths?

Leave those who squeak behind curtains, and run!

Run to the tomorrow, for that is what matters!”

I don't need a pillow.

For a little bit of magic

Goes a long way.

Just a little bit of magic.