His vision, from the constantly passing bars,

has grown so weary that it cannot hold

anything else. It seems to him there are

a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,

the movement of his powerful soft strides

is like a ritual dance around a center

in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils

lifts, quietly—. An image enters in,

rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,

plunges into the heart and is gone.

This is one of the few poems – (the first one ever is “Evening Star” by M. Eminescu) that made a huge impact on my mind.

Enigmatically, it is naming the suffering, to that tiring state of restlessness. “The Panther” was leaving visible paw trails in the muddy unfree state I was forced to live in. The trail led in one direction. Slowly I followed, only to lose it… Watch it get washed away by the sea, the morning mist, or the approaching night…

Funny, how phases of my life perfectly resemble  poems. 

A similarity causing so much resonance within me – my personality/ego/self-image – so strong, so violent, that it endangered my sanity and the undivided-existence-of-everything-I-am. Responding to the point where I got nearly shattered…

 

The cracking sound was clearly audible. Not only for me, but for everybody else. Audible in every word I said, every day I lived, every move I made – if anyone would have paid attention…
If anybody had cared…
They would have heard the breaking, as a remarkably ordinary, high pitching and peculiar tone.
Sometimes a crackling in my nerves and muscles, sometimes a beacon of pure imagination focused to burn a hole into reality… A background noise in my pronunciation and language, mostly resembling to the chime of a distant banshee cry…
Nevertheless…
A broken lil’ me skating the edge of destruction, refusing to stop…

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