I once had a dream that I met my idols
The green light was on their faces
Clearer as daylight, I saw them
Kafka stranded aloof along with his father and the giant vermin on the shore
I felt Kafkaesque surrounding us all
Far away saw Hemingway rowing the boat calling me an old man who is still unsure
Dostoevsky lined up to get shot, smilingly told me, you’re an honest thief one day you will get caught
Had coffee with Sartre as the sun set at cafe the Flore
Being and Nothingness joined us, cream or milk were still unsure
Camus said I met with an accident
My body was cremated in Lourmarin
Come let’s put yellow petals on the grave
We can use the unused train tickets; the journey settled but not the hunger, not what you crave
Saw Nietzsche still crying while hugging the horse
Told me you’re no superman, you’re just a rebel without a cause
Did I had deeply enriched life?
All twisted with daggers and knives
As the train left the station – Tolstoy confessed
It’s still 1984, leave this Animal Farm, Orwell scolded me
Abandon the quest, futile and vain are all the conquest
Vonnegut told me he will write me letters
Lift my spirits as life is not for living, it’s a slaughterhouse
Full of malice, the undead singing, heavy lies the crown
Fahrenheit all the books, Bradbury screamed
Nothing written in ink was ever the truth
Garcia still living in solitude
Cholera had found love, but not him or me, quench remains, of us selected few
Saw Neruda reciting love poems to empty chairs
Sat there and listened, his voice filled with diamonds and my eye filled with tears
Frost was angry that I took the road less travelled
Miles were not over and he wanted to sleep
Miles were not over and it was cold, no sign of sun and its heat
Emerson discredited self-reliance
Told me, life is not lived by terms of our own
It’s lived in adherence to society
Don’t be a martyr
Listen to me, my books are not your home
Get out!
I told Shakespeare, to be or not to be that’s the question?
Then just BE, he answered, let it be the lesson of your life and its remaining complexions
Dickens had great expectations from me
But all remained now was tragedy and loss
His face filled with Scrooge scars
He told me to get lost
Hitchens proclaimed God is great
Astonishment filled my face
He gave me a smile and said –
“Death gives you a proof
After life is a spoof”
A Raven told Poe about my arrival
He told me, my will is weak
Survival is steep
Take this shovel and start digging your grave
Nothing you earned
Tonight, you burn on a stake
Letting go has a price, you will see
Ayn, Roark and Galt were having intellectual discussions
They saw me but neglected and ignored
As I was beneath them
Self-pity and doubts don’t score well
Writers’ curse, oh all of you, burn in hell!
Kierkegaard came along and took me by my shoulder
Said to me, here’s an advice, I don’t care if it feels sour –
Marry the sweetheart of your childhood
Heart can’t be moulded in adulthood
It can’t be supported by clutches or any shoulder
He began to show me his chest
It was incessantly bleeding, bleeding from 11 Aug’ 1841
Why that date? – I quizzed
I broke her heart that day
And broke myself too
Are you listening, you good for nothing coward?
I took a knife and shred it in half
That’s how I lived and died
That’s how I created my works in which you find your solace now
You’re impressed right but price has to be paid
Don’t once misunderstand this, it has to be paid
In this lifetime itself, it has to be paid
I once had a dream that I met my false idols
The red light was on their faces
Then I shared a drink with Bukowski and got into a bar fight
As he swung his right fist and hit my chin
I woke up and I never saw them agin!