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In a lazy Sunday afternoon, I was just reading a poem, that made me feel the tranquility all the way, by Charles Bukowski and I wanted to share it below:
avoiding humanity
much of my life has been dedicated
to just that.
and still is.
even today at the track,
I was sitting alone between races,
in a dumb dream-state
but dumb or not,
it was mine.
then I heard a voice.
some fellow had seated himself
right behind me.
"I've come where it's nice and
quiet," he said.
I got up, walked about 150 yards
away and sat down
I felt no guilt, only the return of a
more pleasant state of
for decades i have been
bothered by door-knockers,
phone-ringers, letter-writers; and
strangers in airports and bars,
boxing matches, cafes, concerts,
libraries, supermarkets, jails,
hospitals, hotels, motels,
pharmacies, post offices,
I am not a lonely person.
I don't want to be embraced, cajoled,
told jokes to, I don't want to share
opinions or talk about the
weather and/or etc. and
I have never met a lively, original
interesting soul by accident and
I don't expect to.
all I have ever met are a herd of
dullards who have wanted to project
their petty frustrations upon me.
for some time women fooled
I would see a body, a face, a
seeming aura of peace and
gentleness, a cool refreshing lake
to splash in,
but once they spoke
there was a voice like
chalk scratching a blackboard,
and what came forth as
was a hideous and crippled
I lived with dozens of these.
the phone is ringing now.
but I have a message
they are leaving
this one wants to see
it wants to invite
itself over.
a reason is given,
some pretense.
it is hardly a worthy
the last words are,
"Please let me know."
why do they want to see
I don't want to see
can't they sense
am I the only one in the
world who finds being
alone to be a blessing, a
must I always be kind to
those who would wallow
in my hours?
am i an ugly soul?
a misogynist?
a crackpot?
a bastard?
a murderer of hope?
do I torture animals?
am I without love?
do I reek of bitterness?
am I unfair?
am I the wrecking ball of dreams?
am I the devil's encore?
do I put glass in the sandbox?
am I without morals or mercy?
if so, why do they want to keep
seeing me?
I would never want to see
anybody like that.
when I am
       Charles Bukowski, Betting on The Muse, 1996, pg. 240