Bad morning! Bad luck! Bad life! I am sorry for being so negative. But you know, I feel like am raised into it. You can hardly understand it. I wonder how you would feel if you were to awaken to hangover you did not drink to have. You didn't drink much last night but wake up vomiting and sleep-walking and self-talking. How defeated you must feel. I see. It is not easy. Losing without being a loser is quite painful, all right. Battling to death, even when you never started it, is an enormous defeat in itself. Lying in bed, doing nothing of purpose but only thinking about how your unconditional love and care and protectiveness paid you off, fucked you, murdered you and left you in a state of deep nothingness, a trap of sorts. You know, you cannot get out of it this easily. In fact, I say, you cannot get out of it and call yourself a winner. You will still be a loser, for it was because of losing that you were thrown into this trap. Those who fucked you have found new lovers, have moved on effortlessly and are living happy lives. Wish them luck! And fuck yourself! God damn you, you fine son of a bitch! Your father didn’t work hard on you to see you lie defeated. Your mother didn’t love you to see you cry for someone who sucked off your good emotions, your precious times, your humanity, your love, your lips, your crotch and what not, and left you with nothing but bruises and scars, with nothing to be content about. Your siblings didn’t motivate you to see you do nothing but brooding over the losses that you merrily invited in your life. Yes, you are immature. You left your family to build another with somebody else. You denied love of your loved ones to offer love to someone who didn’t deserve it. You abandoned your home sweet home to rent a small room in a heart whose owner never allowed a renter to stay for more than a couple months (or years, if you are paying a handsome price). You are a stupid fucking bastard! You deserve to be cursed. Even now, after knowing the reality of people who pretended to love you but actually drained you of your peace, you still want to go back and apologize for mistakes you never committed. You are ready to say sorry to the person who doesn’t know the damned meaning of it. After all, they have never used it. But that is how love plays its tricks. That is how it’s got to be. Love is a stupid dog from hell. And what you hear about it or know or expect is nothing but a mirage. I don’t see why we need to “find” love. I don’t see why we wish to fuck ourselves with another big issue of the universe. We are never satisfied with the problems we have. We want more. I think we like stupidifying ourselves. We like to be messed up. We like to be betrayed and cry silently in one corner of the room. But that’s how love goes on—losing yourself just to see a smile on somebody’s face, killing your wishes to fulfill those of the other person, fighting a thousand people to reserve your place in the heart of that one person you adore most, abandoning heavens to sleep beside them, to talk to them, to hear them say that we are who they wish to be with. That is how love is—forgetting yourself to remember the memories you made with that one person, doing anything and everything you don’t like to see them excited, never sleep until midnight waiting for them to call up. Nothing of all this happens actually but we still go hard at work. Nothing lasts forever but we strongly hope it to be so. We like doing it all right. We become them. The lucky ones are showered return-gifts from the Heaven for their selfless industry and dedication for cultivating love but the unlucky ones are left alone. I am sorry. We are all sorry for them, except those who got selfish enough to suck them off, to fuck them up. The unlucky ones turn lazy and crazy since they have lost faith in determination and dedication reaping good results. They are of opinion that cheaters live great lives whereas those who focus and work hard with a totally selfless intention are left to die in a gutter. They have lost faith in humanity, in purpose, in love. I am sorry for them. Honestly speaking, I curse their betrayers and pray to God that they forget the losses and find themselves. No more crying, no more cursing, no more blaming, no more smoking, no more drinking, no more contemplating suicide, no more isolating, no more waiting… just forgiving and forgetting and striving to find oneself, just wishing luck to the new lovers and praying for their well-being, just loving oneself and cherishing the good emotions, just reading good books and watching good movies and eating light food and having good conversations with the select few good souls, just throwing one’s soul to every open door and counting one’s blessings and seeking the ultimate goal and turning sorrows and regrets into strengths and optimism and purpose. 

Remember, when life hints you to put a full-stop after a sentence, don’t replace it with a comma. Or you'll miss writing a more beautiful one.

Good evening, mates!

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(Another piece of paper plucked from the diary of a teen)

The next time you listen to sad love songs, remember that they are not going to alleviate your pain. They will only let you feel worse about things, about yourself. They are a bit of relief for the moment, though. But the next time you ever get to listen to them, know that absorbing the melody of emotions that don’t exist cause nothing but downfall. The legendary singers never knew it. The romantic novelists never knew it. The poets never knew it. Those who did know were well acquainted with the way the world works today. They decided to belong here the moment the revelation occurred to them. And they have, always, ever since. They are regarded as more effective lovers because they know what most women want, they know when these entitled women are bored of their boyfriends and fiancés and husbands, and they know when to throw the bait. They are effective lovers. Their dictionary has no word as ‘emotion’. They are just senseless animals looking for temporary contentment. I used to think mature people need a good bond, a good flow of emotions, some sort of effective current between them and who they adore. I have often loved well, with as much emotional depth as possible. For me, love has always been a matter of chief concern. But who do you love in this world so full of these animals craving nothing but fun and making a fool out of you? How do you make this out? There is hardly any way. When we were little kids, we wanted to be cool. We liked talks about men switching from one woman to another, never actually loving any of them. We liked cool shows. And today, few have grown up. The majority still want to be cool, the fuckboys, the sluts. The good ones could find no place. The so-called charm, the money, the carnal pleasures seized it all. The good ones were left to go crazy in dark rooms at 3 o’ clock midnight. They were given no option. The atheists have fun (because that is what they look for, now) while those left in dark rooms have no option but to close their eyes and pray to God that He save them. The effective ones don’t know what lack of strength the good ones face. They have no interest in knowing. They had motives which were fulfilled and now they don’t give a fuck. They literally don’t give a fuck. This may sound nuts to some people but hey, I hope you could understand, even though I never wish you get into this trouble. It feels so wrong. If you are nice enough and honest enough to give your all to people you love, you will face enormous highs and lows at any given point of time. You wouldn’t be able to sleep until it is morning and the birds start chirping. And that would make you feel so defeated, trust me! You will start believing the opinions of other people about you, the effective ones. But I suggest you do not ever listen to them. You were right all along. You did what strong souls are supposed to do. You did what the weak ones could never afford to do. You proved yourself manlier than these fuckboys who leech on their fathers and think women are toys. Even today, you choose heart over sex organs and that takes a hell lot of courage. That takes rare strength, my boy! Be proud of yourself and stand for what you believe is true and worthwhile. Three years from now, they will get tired of their so-called youth. They will get tired of riding and having fun and breaking beds and will finally crave the same sweetness of emotions they were offered for free, the same thing they took for granted and neglected outright for something that didn’t last long enough. The sluts, after finally turning into good women, will desperately look for gentlemen; and the cool fuckboys will lose manhood completely and live alone, smoking and drinking and playing hide and seek with their neighbor’s children. Oh, my little kids!

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We are not humans anymore. We have turned into animals, except we work, to earn money, seek happiness, enjoy our interests or whatever. Sure, we seek love too. But there is no stability anyway. We can no longer boast about the fact that we are the highest form of life on earth, despite possessing the ability to think and discriminate between right and wrong, ameliorate and make the planet a better place. We cannot boast about anything at all. I feel so sorry. I am a human being too. And I feel how most of us do. I belong to the present generation, the dirtiest period of all time. Our ancestors struggled day in and day out to get us where we are now. It took millions and millions of years of birth and death, of striving, of evolution, to be who/what we are today—a well-formed human being, a thinker and the only species ever to have the extraordinary ability to meet the Almighty. But we have forgotten everything now. We have forgotten that we are the only beings who put on clothes to hide our private parts, apart from protecting ourselves from the fluctuations of Mother Nature. We have forgotten our dignity. We have forgotten that we, as humans, have certain rules to abide by, standards to maintain and norms to follow. We have even forgotten that we are human beings. A man kills another man to head forward in the race of life, to protect his wealth which he considers his only reason of existence on this planet and to survive. You know, that’s what animals do. A lion kills another lion when it feels its prey will be snatched by the other enemy. A lion cannot bear another lion entering its territory, so it kills. And it is not guilty; it does not have the ability to be. A man cannot control himself on seeing the curves of a woman, or even a 12-year-old girl. He forcibly touches her body or bites her or even rapes her. He forgets, entirely, that he is a father of a daughter too, that he is born from a mother too, and that he has a wife too. He cannot resist being an animal to quench his sexual thirst. He thinks women are a luxury and not a necessity. So he loves for the sole reason of flaunting. He befools her and the world. He likes trapping other men’s women. He leads them astray. He uses his money and charm and face to catch other’s women and make a fool out of their men. And these women unthinkably let all of this happen. He knows all the spiritual dogmas and Gospels. He believes in God. He believes in Karma, too. When a borrower does not return his money, he says God will teach him a lesson. He knows one pays off for what one does or has done. But he does it anyway. He experiences the never-ceasing pain of instability deep within, but he does it, because he has no control over himself. He becomes a victim of his intense sexual, material urge. He proves that a man, despite being the ‘Supreme Creation of God’, can be a victim of such animal urges. 

Love frightens me now. Human love. Man loving a woman. We desperately need love—to love and to be loved. The hunt for The One never ends, because the needs never end. We have maligned the very concept of it. Animals are better lovers than we are. They find a mate, not a lover. The only mutual need is to reproduce. At least they do not destroy each other emotionally. That must be a relief for them. And I am pretty sure they hate us, humans, for creating chaos in this very world. We cannot trust each other anymore. For we love either to mitigate our pain or to have a successor. Love is not unconditional. There is always a motive behind, selfish motive. And once that motive is fulfilled, the other person becomes as common and unwanted as anyone else. We no longer settle down to one thing, let alone a person. The intensity of love is counted by the number of years couples spend together. So you and I become shallow if we are together for a few months only. We will be on to something pure if it extends to a year or two somehow. And if by the grace of God, we finally manage to stretch it to 3 or 4 years then mind you, we are the purest lovers in the whole damned universe. “They are together for 4 years? May God bless them! My best wishes.” But they don’t realize that it often takes longer than usual to fulfill a greater need. Nobody asks what happens to them after 4 years, whether they get betrayed, or if they survive or commit suicide. Nobody asks; because nobody cares. 

They meet new lovers every 8 months. They go on to love, love and love until they come. And the true love they keep preaching slowly fades away with orgasm. The hunt for The One never ends, 

and so does true love.

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I am bombarded with tasks I don’t like to perform, friends I don’t like to hang out with, books I don’t like to read, movies I don’t like to watch, women I don’t like flirting with, food I don’t like to eat, places I hate visiting and so forth. Life has given me enough, enough of it all. What I throw away comes back with just as much velocity as I had thrown it with. We are all stuck into a singular fate and there is no chance at all. There ought to be someone beside us who is ready to suck out all the pain, all the agony, all the nothingness, from us. There ought to be someone. But it is too difficult to find a person who acknowledges the nights, the dim lights, the solitude and the calm conversations, with as much appreciation as we do. In some way or other, we are all going mad, crazy as fuck. Despite knowing it is not going to happen, we keep looking. We keep smoking and drinking and humming sad songs as we lie in our beds. The flesh rips apart and the bones ache. The eyes oscillate and the lips shiver. Red lips--bloody red. Our hands stretch wide as if trying to hug someone, someone invisible. And it all happens in the night. It feels like our heads will burst open and the dirty virus with which they are filled will come crawling out. But it doesn’t happen. We all have our own eccentric ways of dealing with it. Some get their eyes glued on the phone screen, waiting for someone to talk friendlily to them. Some stay awake the whole night and write dirty shitloads of poems, sad poems filled with a lot of emotions. Some smoke cigarettes and drink jars of beer. Some sing classical masterpieces of Mozart, whereas some simply sit there in the midnight and look at the moving hands of the clock. The next day, the regular men give their wives or girlfriends 3 goodbye kisses and go to work while the rest like you (probably) and I stay in bed until noon. And then, they wake up half in sleep, brush, shit, force-feed, wear whatever they find in front of themselves and go out to do something they are hardly sure about.

There are some people who are always seized in pain. It is as if they were born with it. And no matter what they do or how hard they try to get rid of it, they are simple trapped in it. As time rolls by, they get more and more certain about the collapse of their future. They stop throwing their legs and hands and accept, with resignation, whatever little they are offered of life. Such people like experimenting with art. For it is probably the only thing that provides them a bit of relief... or escape. They like creating new pieces of it which they mostly keep secret. And when their time comes, they, like all horses and hyenas, die, leaving little to no property behind but gigantic works of art. And then, people buy their sweet little legacy and appreciate their life stories and keep them in exclusive places in their homes. 

What a life!

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i sit here,
looking at my mobile screen
looking at the words
and these beautiful images
and wondering how the fuck 
i ever got here.

i sit,
i sit like an improper lout
whose head collapses so often that
he hates himself 
and the world around
and keeps wondering why he wonders a lot
despite knowing the reality.

they turn my city into a ‘smart city’
but leave these people in the same dull state
they are not turned into ‘smart people’ anyway
like the city they live in,
they bring in heavy bulldozers 
to break down the large pillars that
impede the traffic.
these bulldozers hit hard
i wonder why they don’t hit and smash 
and burst and break down the people 
who surround me;
if they do, i am sure my city will transform 
into the smartest of all.

what a burden it is to worry about
the position, prestige and influence,
but how amazing it sounds!
but it sucks to make it,
the duty to keep living
to keep surviving is 
an unending string of meeting needs
and fulfilling responsibilities
and we all must get it well
but nonetheless, the gods receive 
countless prayers from people
wishing they could reach there,
to some place
in order to take on other bizarre duties
that have nothing to do with their own lives.

that 15-year-old girl, possessing 
newly developed assets
is new in this sector—no duty,
no responsibility,
no burdens…
what a joy it must be to 
murder the boys,
what a joy it must be to 
be murdered;
they will topple over soon
they won’t last long enough—
nobody does,
when the demons find them, finally.
they will stop
they must.
these girls, as they grow into pretty women,
will be seen blessing these boys as mothers.
i pity these little kids for being so ignorant
i wish they could hear me when
i didn’t speak. 

the horses run the carriage with utmost focus
and these pathetic people go on to blast their harsh, unheard voices
in my ears
and i am too tired to retort or to punch them
to death;
but i have been a veteran player 
in this game—
they don’t see who they mess with,
may god bless them!

the people who have seen the real colors of life
know how to go about surviving in the circus,
they have the clearest visions and brightest eyes,
they change themselves for the better
and will change the world, too
they will make it a better place to be
while i will wake up in the same room,
and brush my teeth, shit, piss, force-eat
and go out to watch the same circus

as it goes;

i will keep watching 
till the blood in me dries completely
and i will come back 
and sit back in the chair,
looking at the mobile screen
and wondering how i rushed on a rollercoaster
from all
to nothing,
how i didn’t die so far
and how i made it all.

o, fuck the world!
the night bulbs and 
the walls and the bed sheets
know my true story.
they know i create good works of art
and that i am a decent person

and that, i think, is quite enough
for now.

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A piece of paper plucked from the diary of an abandoned teen, left alone in a secluded corner of the house.

lost, lost in oblivion

Sometimes the person you trust the most ends up making a darned fool out of you. I have already assumed so much of stupidity and mindlessness in myself that any corroboration to this feels death. I have already stopped trusting many people. To be honest, I trusted only one person—I would not mention who since my letters are often found by my lost and lonely father or my curious sister or my guileless mother. So unfortunately, I have to write in such a way that even if it is read by some unwanted person, not much would be revealed about my personal life. However, I do not expect any loss of dignity by any means whatever. I don’t see I have even a bit of it left in me. People knock me down. They make me cry. They stupidify me, and I get up and hug them back. It has almost become a habit with me. I either hug them or get away for good. There is no in-between. They do clever things because they have means. Good means. They have debit cards and a heavy bank balance and good clothes and hence, a lot of friends. Unlike them, I never expect anyone’s stay in my life for good. I know people never have a fresh choice. Commitment is painful. For after a while, even the thought of separation hurts more than anything else. You cannot get away. There is the insecurity of not having it all. There is this fear of losing the hold any time. There is the speculation of not being able to last long. She had men craving her for every damned thing. I had women craving me for something I could hardly make out. Maybe it was for the wolf people never could afford to see. Maybe they know I am the only one who possesses that deadly thing, the life taker. Men are jealous of him. Women crave to have a glimpse of him. But they will never get to. For that is the only entity that keeps me going in bad times. That is what allows my words to flow like a river. I love him more than a man can ever love a woman, even though I know that only is the reason I remain passive and dead all day.

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