Nothing should be said about poems. They already have said too much. And words, I think, are often misused in the world of literature. But I’ll still do. I don’t just misuse words. I disabuse them—a habit I am trying to rid myself of.
Anyway, these 101 micro-poems result from my reaction to the absurdity of my existence, which is more absurd than what is absurd for most people, courtesy—my terminal illness.
I had already planned that I would publish them when I get majorly ill once again. And getting infected with Covid-19 comes into that category. I got infected, and I started working on it.
These poems should not be taken so seriously. Most of them mock their author—and by extension, their reader. They are to be read and then forgotten. They should not be analyzed. And none of them by themselves is original. Nothing is new under the sun.
In fact, they are statements of my reaction to Sartre’s philosophical outlook, which seems to dominate the thought pattern of people nowadays. I had to mention him explicitly, not just because I disagree with him, but also because I am majorly affected by him. So one can say, I dedicate this set of poems to him.
Existence might precede essence. But I think (and I am not laying out my arguments in this ‘literary’ text) Angst is what precedes existence.
As Cioran says, “No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.” To all this, I add: We become aware of our existence only after angst has wrapped its tentacles around us like an Octopus. Our angst is the ‘deadly wound’ that makes us ‘look’ at chestnut trees in the first place.
For now, this suffices.
One copy of "Angst Precedes Existence" in pdf format.