Birth pangs of a prodigal monk

I have been pregnant for long now, so much so that I cannot properly remember since how long has this pregnancy been imposed upon me. Many of my unborn children who never could see the light of day must have left so many scars in my psyche that every summersault gives me a splitting headache – the angst of untold stories reverberating in my cranium. Life moves on with such a staggering pace that one hardly notices the interregnums. Our sensory perceptions make us believe that the world is what it is now, at this moment. We are biologically conditioned to accept status quo as the only present truth and all else gets lost in the singular dimension of time. We can hardly imagine the time horizon when we were not able to call, text and share info on the move; it must have been some other fictional world. I cannot remember the interregnum of all these years when I was in exile, when I was crumbling under the weight of self-imposed moratoriums, when I was wandering in convoluted loops. It all seems like yesterday, when I lost my way and walked into wilderness. It is as if I had never lost way, as if I was doing this all along. Words spring out of my head like droplets waiting for a release. I have simply erased the interregnum and have been pregnant all through!

One of the inherent problems of pregnancy of any kind is that one cannot remain pregnant forever, one has to deliver. So after many a still born child and quite a few disastrous ventures, I am ready again to go through another cycle of life. It is but natural that my literary senses are activated now to see through the metaphors of life all over again. Words that refused to spring out into the open and had decided to remain in the labyrinths of dark alleys cocooned in my thoughts are now sprouting out uncontrollably. There seems to be an undeniable link between my entrepreneurial shenanigans, literary forays and soccer. As if all three have decided to juxtapose themselves on the cycle of my life and create a riot of colours seamlessly bright and hurting the vision. It is the interplay between these three musketeers that intoxicates me and elevates me from my banal existence. Outdated Marxist ideas of history repeating itself first as tragedy then as farce be damned, I am ready like I have never been before to go through the birth pangs!

Giving birth to a company is akin to giving birth to a child, exhilarating and painful at the same time. Being pregnant with ideas is one thing, creating a company out of those ideas is an ordeal that brings the male of our species closest to experiencing womanhood in all its glory. Entrepreneurial intoxication is the highest tribute to pagan culture. Today after a long dark night am entering into labour pains, every muscle of my body is itching to see the light of day beyond the dark tunnel.

The night is at its darkest just before the dawn
It grows darker and darker still,
Shining stars mocking at us from an eternal black lawn,
A mockery of re-enforced thrill.

Trembling, Earth waits to be kissed by the first rays of sunshine,
To be liberated from the tentacles of dark space.
My heart cries for light and yearns to proclaim all the Sun as "mine"!
Oblivious to needs of the rest of the human race.

P.S: This is an extraction from the poem that I had published long ago in myriad symbolisms from the dark side of the sun and midnight dreams. I somehow found it apt to re-print it here again.