DIALOGUE WITH ONESELF

Neither academic, nor preacher, nor politician, nor judge, But a writer, with a fetish for the act of creation — Not to broadcast my thoughts, or to synthesize critiques for others, But for the vanity of publication, the fleeting pride of being known. As I set the first word down, the tumult in my mind, Mirrors that of a crusader, a terrorist, or the rioter with his cleaver— Yet, I do not wish to add to the endless glut of images, That leave readers satisfied only with how bad they feel, Lost in the shadow of things they cannot change. I leaf through the marrow of atrocities— I watch as a wave, that had built so majestically, Breaks upon shallow water— Reduced to a ripple, powerless and lost by the time it reaches the shore. And suddenly, a line from Krishnamurti’s discourse seizes my mind: "Violence is the imposition of what should be on what is." For violence, like dust clouds, moves through the body— Shifting, with a fission here, a clamp there— A twinge in the gut, a mild static in the extremities— Imperceptibly morphing its shape, texture, and boldness, Always in motion, always alive. And in this ecstasy, I can see clearly, Through the tincture of anxiety, My thoughts sharp and focused, Rushing to dash out an eloquent critique, As if the act of writing might somehow calm the storm within, Steady the chaos— That spins a whirlwind underneath my skin.