When you speak of solitude, and your mind wanders like an unleashed dog. When your muse shuts the door, and your words rampage for freedom. When you seek for silence, and the next moment you are lying in ICU. When triviality sculptures masterpieces, and your poems seems to resist it's verses. When you can't criticize a poem, and you find your poem unworthy of critics. (Read Caption) As Rilke said, poems have no identity of their own, I searched for my existence in the thickets of my life screaming like a mad woman clapping her hands to find solitude between black and blue of my room which is situated in the flea market. Everyday there comes thousands of bargainers to exchange their poetries for survival. Every Saturday evening, there was a sale when the traders sold their poems at cheap rate. Every night, there was a burglary where thieves conceal, taking poems with them to feel their identify. The unworthiness of poem lies in the absurdity of it's bewildered emotions forcing you to think about your now and then. The poet's writes his first line about 'failing his own existence and how the muse left his house without any notice'. So he thinks about his hardships, finding himself at a loss of words, his crooked pen lose its soul into the ink. How he waited for spring whole year but winter left his field perished with his destructed island which never grow nor his belongings as souvenirs. And you found yourself existing behind the scarecrow looking at him in desperation. You wanted to talk to him, about his poetry, how you felt relatable reading it. And how everything will be fine but a question appears, Will I be able to find peace ever? One day you decided to go to the sale, out of boredom and decided to buy someone's identity which will worth your money. At first, the language seems foreign to you but still you read thinking things first get bad, worse, worst beyond any language can hold but after reading ten lines, you re-read it to understand that the poet was shouting at the edge of shore for his beloved, who was waiting on the other side unable to hear him among the crashing of waves. You suddenly find yourself speaking his tongue and saying, "I can hear you" but something clicks and you find yourself drowning in the middle of pages you bought at a bargain, for you have given some of you to buy the lost vestiges stacked between the half priced pages. The epilogue asks for criticism and you write your review arisen out of neccesity for you have felt the famous Sufi Nasrudin's words, "those who have stayed will be the one who will hear me loud".
