I am a meditator
Between this world and the nest
The open plan office of my brain
The workday harangue of demonic stress and understanding.

There is no one standing under me,
I am alone at work all day long.
The night is like a shouting wolf in the merry snow of Christmas in Leeds –
Sold out entry to next year’s competition.

Friends need revision & the memories are always there
but underneath are the Gunas are they despairing
I am paired with my mother for thanks and regretful lifestyles
Machines and cold waters
Open deserts and travelling daughters
The ones than make the past so enjoyable for men in the field of toys
so little to be thankful for when I consider myself gone

It won’t be long before I seek self-demanding understanding
The plain mug of tea and the lacking saucer
The night time Horlicks accompanying my pressured day to sleep
Then I will drink deep & calculate the art of landing on my Tweets.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like the inner diary of a man suspended between the discipline of meditation and the grind of ordinary life, someone whose “open‑plan office of the brain” never quite shuts down. The loneliness of the workday, the wolf‑like nights, and the memories of friends who have drifted into revision and adulthood all create a sense of being left behind by time. Beneath it all, the gunas churn — heaviness, restlessness, clarity — shaping your moods as you navigate family bonds, regrets, and the small rituals that keep you steady: tea, Horlicks, the quiet of night. The poem widens into landscapes of deserts, daughters, toys, and past joys, only to return to the pressure of psychiatry, the cold machinery of institutions, and the political noise that intrudes on your inner life. By the end, the speaker is exhausted but still reaching for meaning, calculating the “art of landing on my Tweets” as if even self‑expression requires precision and energy. It’s a portrait of a man who meditates not to escape life, but to survive the weight of being himself.