The Journey

 In a cosmos of stories, told and retold

You are lost to be seeking the truth

An Impersonal Letter

 It's personal, it's bloody personal.

When you see faces smiling at you, on your screen

Faces you know, have been burnt to ashes

When you pray that single tick on the messenger reads "seen" someday

Messages you know, have lost their way in a dead inbox

When you hear wailing voices tearing apart on calls

Voices you know, are now all a matter of the past

The Government has skeletons in the cupboard and yet no regrets, no fucks to give

We, who didn't have cupboards big enough for skeletons, now have ghosts in our heads

The Conclusion

Try

Try even if you fall

Try even if it breaks you to get back on your feet

And then one day

It'll all fit

Not how you imagined it to be 

But fit nevertheless

And then one day

It'll all make sense

Why trying was never a choice

But the singular truth

Failure is obvious; sucess is a choice

Death is inevitable; life is a privilege

But then, how could you ever succeed if you were too fragile to fail?

But then, how would you ever live if you were too damned to die?

Beyond the Horizon

 What's worse?

The fear of your scars being cut open all over again

The letting go of a possibility to keep your scars guarded in band-aids of denial

Or, dwindling between bouts of both

How'd you ever know unless you've lived them, and beyond?

Queer

and then, one lazy morning

that came without a promise

carpe diem turned a believer of forevers

The Fable Called Forever

Not all love stories are meant to be poetry

Some love stories are the making of obituaries

Not all love stories are meant to be in love

Some love stories are the making of wars

Everything is fair in love and war, someone once said

And love was never the same anymore

Once you've drawn parallels between love and war

Bloodshed is romance; inflicting wounds, foreplay

Piling corpses are but martyred lovers, after all

But then, what happens to the ones that survive the war, once the war's over

But then, what happens to the ones that survived the love, once the love's gone

Shipwrecks don't believe in forevers

The Birth of Revolution

Once upon a time, there used to be a king. A king whose folklores were bigger than his statues, and his riches. Now, the problem with folklore is, they are great stories, but stories, nevertheless. Unless, taken to be gospel truth! But then, that’s the thing with literal people; they will take anything and everything literally! In the 21st century, they’d go on to be called mystics and journalists!

So, this king had folklore about him, about how he came from humble ways and rose to power to become a king. How he sacrificed his wife for the sake of the kingdom and its greater good, how he went from rags to royalty with the determination to serve people. Now, all of these were folktales, or as people in the 21st century would call it, PR strategies. Now, most of the commoners were happy believing these folklores to be gospel truth. Because it gave them hope. But then, like always, people of reason turned up and tried spoiling the fun. The people of reason were then tried for treason; while the stubborn ones were executed, the ones who knew to suit their conveniences, turned ministers at the court of the very same king.

But then, folklores are only as good as fuckups allow them to be. And thus, began the tale of the king’s fuckups. There were droughts, and there were deaths. There were plagues, and there was pandemonium. Soon, more and more people began siding with the men of reason. And the king did what he had to do, to ensure he stayed in power.  He overruled reason with religion. And, if history has taught us anything, it is this, that religion always takes over reason. While the masses perished to dwindling fortunes, the messiah feasted on gold armchairs. Religion had found its latest ambassador. Newer folklore replaced the older ones in no time; people were happy with their clay gods and brick temples.

On an ominous afternoon, a court musician drowned himself to death, in country liquor. Some lamented the death, some, the demise of talent, while the rest just watched. Hours after his funeral, a rumour hit the surface for the first time: he did not drown himself in alcohol, he was probably tricked and forced into it. But then, back in those days, rumours were only as good as rumours; in short, just another passing folklore. But then, the king saw an opportunity that could turn him immortal. He indulged the rumour to be passed on, until it turned a wildfire. With every mouth it passed, it turned from a folklore to a legend, and before people knew, they were an integral part of this revolution. The revolution, they didn’t know, existed! Their revolution was for the crime to be punished, but then no one quite fitted the descriptions. Over time, the list of suspects grew longer and longer, and the chances of a conclusion got bleaker and bleaker. But the people, the people were too intoxicated to get over it, so they continued the revolution, this time calling it justice for the dead. And that right there, was history being scripted, by people who believed they were fighting for a cause. No one knows what happened to the revolution afterwards, but it sure did not have an outcome to remember. So, folklore taught the generations to come, that, it was the fight that mattered, not the outcome.

In a parallel world of logic and reason, it was just another death in space. That ended in a death. No king, no folklore, no revolution, no history. Just another death.

Justice can be served to the living. The dead can only be remembered. Death is too final and impenetrable; justice for the dead is like a birthday for the unborn. It’s not a concept, not even an abstract; it’s irrelevant.

The kingdoms prevailed though. They just came to be known as governments.