They say —
everything is fair in love and war.
But they forget —
survival is war.
Breathing is war.
And love?
Love is more cruel than battlefields could ever get,
in metaphors and in actuality
Wars, where both soldiers kiss as they kill.
We talk of fairness
like it’s a god-gifted privilege —
an inheritance of sorts
as if the universe handed us a receipt
at birth
with “justice” printed at the bottom in fine ink.
As if stars give a damn
about who bleeds louder.
It’s ironic, really.
Humanity, that fragile empire of bone and ego,
demands fairness
from a planet
that hurls asteroids at life
just for sport.
Life isn’t fair.
Not to the rabbit.
Not to the hawk.
Not to the child
born in a postcode
that spells famine in every syllable.
If fairness were a benchmark,
most of us wouldn’t be here.
We’re evolutionary clerical errors —
glitches that refused to die.
Stubborn accidents dressed in skin
pretending to have purpose.
And yet,
we cry when things aren’t fair.
We write poetry about it.
We pray about it.
We legislate it into constitutions
we’re too exhausted to read.
Why?
Because fairness
is the most comforting lie
ever sold.
And humans?
Humans are addicts.
Addicted to meaning.
Addicted to justice.
Addicted to the idea
that if they suffer long enough,
someone will notice.
Someone will care.
Someone will clap.
Truth be told:
The universe doesn’t clap.
It swallows whole.
We build myths around fairness —
dress it in divine robes,
call it karma,
call it destiny,
call it God.
But fairness doesn’t knock.
It doesn’t text you back.
It doesn’t save the good
or punish the evil.
Fairness isn’t real.
It’s a placebo
for people too scared
to admit that life is random
and pain is the default setting.
Still, we persist.
We cling to fairness
the way lovers cling to each other
before the final argument —
knowing it’s over,
but too afraid to be alone in the truth.
And that’s where love enters —
the greatest hoax
masquerading as salvation.
They say love heals.
They forget to mention
it first digs
right where the scar never closed.
Love teaches you
that someone else’s chaos
can become your home.
Until the walls burn.
And you realise —
home was just a hostage situation
with scented candles.
But we crave it.
Because in a world without fairness,
love feels like order.
It feels like gravity.
It feels like someone finally read your manual —
only to underline the warnings
and ignore the rest.
Fairness is a myth.
War is constant.
And love is just war
that asks you to undress first.
Nothing is fair.
Not the bombs.
Not the betrayals.
Not the goodbye
that came wearing your name
on a voice that used to whisper safety.
Fairness isn’t just dead —
it never lived.
And yet,
we keep breathing.
We keep loving.
We keep bleeding
like idiots rehearsing for a play
where no one remembers the script
and the curtains never fall.
Because maybe —
just maybe —
the only fair thing about life
is that no one survives it.
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