“A Life of Pretense” 

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I laugh a lot. People take me for a jolly person. it is rather sad that 90% of my giggles are to please my fellows only. I do not restrict my insincere show of emotions to laughing. I have cried for others too. Some of my tears were genuine, others? not so much! If I ever disclosed which was which, I would risk my credibility as a human being.

Heck! I have even pretended faith. Not a long time ago, I had been into madrasas and Majalis. I had been a part of congregational prayers more often than I would like to admit; it was all action-no feeling. The one emotion, however, that I truly felt is agitation. When anxiety hit me, I was alive.

I have pretended to be alive for several years. One day, I decided I should be able to feign death. Thus, knowing it would end up in a failure, I ventured forward. I went to bed and slept. 16 hours later, I was disturbed and forced out of my bed. I couldn’t tell them I was dead for that would kill the purpose. I persuaded a doctor to admit me to a hospital, but they didn’t declare me dead either. I knew in my heart I was more dead than alive but it was easier to pose life than the demise.

Descartes said, “I think; therefore I am” so I stopped thinking, and that robbed me of my anxiety. Now, no part of me was alive, and they continued to believe in my existence!

My final thought, which is a proof I had lived once; why is the world so apt at calling your bluff of dying but not of living?

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Tea Strength, Birthdays, and other Depressions

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When I was a kid, my dear mother ensured I stayed away from tea. I guess, feeding milk to their children is an inherent trait in mammalian mothers, which does not go away even when the child’s suckling days are over. Like any other good mom, she force fed me a glass of milk. Being a thankless turd, what I had on my plate never satisfied me. I made faces. “It smells,” I used to complain.

Besides worrying about my health, my poor Mama cared for my happiness. Thus, she added flavor to my essential dose of lactose. Terms such as Ovaltine, Cocoa Milk, Milo, Chocolate and Vanilla Milk entered my vocabulary and the ingredients holding these names, my body. I surrendered to my dairy-laden fate but still coveted my mother’s chai.

Then I grew up a little, and she allowed me a few drops- the ones I got for dunking my rusks in her precious tea. These scarce droplets transformed into a Doodh Patti, which after passing through various dilutions turned into my first cup of a strong tea. I was 14.

It only got worse after that. With every passing birthday, the tea granules increased while the whitening agent decreased. The concentration was according to my energy requirements.

It continued that way until I hit the quarter-century plateau. After that all went downhill — three cups of strong tea a day reduced to two moderate ones. I was growing soft!

Tea, my magical potion, gave me strength. I needed the strength to fight off the obstacles that came in the way of my dreams but at 25, I found out I had none! When you lose your aspirations, the extra stimulation doesn’t do you much good. It only fuels your depression.

There was no point in consuming an exuberant amount of tea, only to lay awake at night, resting against a pillow made from the wool of anxiety, under the blanket of melancholy. As a kid, I watched a lot of Popeye-The Sailor Man. It made me wonder had Olive died, would he still eat his Spinach to defeat Brutus. I don’t think he would and I am Popeye with no Olive in my life. Brutus hit me and I couldn’t care less.

Today is May 8th, my birthday. A long time ago, this day used to awaken dancing butterflies in my stomach. Now, the butterflies are dying so silently that I don’t even feel the urge to mourn for them. I’d rather drink my diluted tea. It won’t stimulate; just sustain. Indifference has prevailed!

Toothaches > Heartaches

 

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Tobacco, tomato, timber, and toothache.

Smoke it, hot, don’t burn, in pain.

Please don’t bother for my sake

Because I am pretty insane.

 

Human, you humane. Heartache!

Didn’t I tell you to refrain?

 

Nothing to offer, I have, I’m afraid,

Yet my blood, you continue to drain.

When the last few drops fade,

You come and feast on my brain.

 

My brain, my brain, my brain!

Is empty but frowns in disdain.

 

Chew your tobacco.

Clone a tomato.

Use the timber, build a canoe.

Sail and drown, deep in blue!

 

Heartaches, you may sustain

But curing toothaches? In vain!

Riddle Me Out!

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And once upon a time,
I was a piece
of a jigsaw puzzle.
But not the corner one —
that is always unique.
I was more of a left mid one.
And there were many others like me.
Thus, I was
Easy to misplace.

The child to whom I belonged
Threw me away
out of neglect one day.
The sweeper swept me away
Into the dustbin, I dwelled.
Until it was time,
for the waste to be taken away.

The garbage truck
was almost at the door.
The family has put,
the dustbins in the streets
I will be incinerated, I believed.

Fate, however, had other plans
For a stray dog came running
I was stuck in a piece of meat
And was taken away by the beast.

He ran away with his prize
Took me along too on the ride.
The mad guy didn’t look around,
and crashed
straight into the truck on the road
There was a banging sound!

I was thrown away, once again.
This time I landed into a gutter
But not quite so!
For I was stuck in its grill.

Nobody paid me much heed.
Autumn, Winter, Summers,
and then Spring reached.
Coffee, ketchup, acids,
All of them, I tasted.

Then one day,
a guy came along.
He opened his zipper
and peed all over me
while humming a song.

Stinking me was still stuck.
in the grill of a dirty gutter.

Then I saw a hippie
He was walking towards me.
“What will he do?”
The thought frightened me.

He was glancing
everywhere
Up and down
Left and right
As if he was searching
for treasure trove.

‘I am not what he wants’
I thought.
Yet his gaze lingered on me
He kneeled down and picked me (?)

He whiffed and smiled
To my surprise!
In his pocket,
I was taken!

Now I sit,
as an art piece.
Considered the best
in the gallery.
The artist has made me a celebrity!

An Emergency Situation

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Fight or flight,
Are the two options,
Nature’s MCQs supply. 
But I see two more;
All of the above.
None of the above.
My pencil hovers,
On the latter two.

For I don’t want to fight
But flying away won’t work, right?
Thus I stay,
Dangling between the two.

I pumped myself to fight,
“Fly, fly!”, the inner me cried.
So I was ready to take off,
Far away from the sight of war.
“Come here, you coward”
I heard myself shout.

Now I stand
With one hand
evolved Into a spear.
On the other hand, gathers,
Uncountable feathers.

Some days I fight as well as fly,
Some days, however I just sit and cry.

I think, therefore I am—Week 3, WRINGO-2017

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Hello again,
The week is about to end, and our philosophical ramblings have ended too. Yep! you have guessed right! This week’s genre was philosophy!!!

Big word, right?

That was what we thought when the dice rolled and forced us all to exercise our neurons a bit. Without further ado, I would like to present the literary accomplishments of this week.

Story 1: Seeing the Stone through the Eyes of Sisyphus

This writer certainly decided to go all absurd on us with this narrative. This is an attempt to tell the story from Sisyphus’ perspective, building on, refuting some, and accepting other ideas of the handsome Mr Camus (fan girling). Must we assume Sisyphus happy? Read on and decide for yourself!

Story 2: From Afar Watching Closely

Would you rather spend your life as a blind believer or would you like to question everything (sometimes just for the sake of it)? Choose your approach because someone is watching you closely, even from afar!

Story 3: The Failed Pursuit

What happens when two different stories with same philosophies intertwine? A tragic end or a happy beginning? Read on to find out!!!

Story 4: In The Midst Of The Forest…

Accept… reject.. accept… and the cycle goes on. A deep tale of finding one’s identity right in the midst of a forest of depression.

Story 5: A Lesson via Wraith

So you think it is gone? That hooligan… monster… your fear… your reality! It never leaves, you know? The only way out is to let it get inside you!

Yes, that is some amazing 5 stories!!!! You think we are done? We thought so too! But no!!! There was a 6th story, which was a pleasant surprise because we had no idea who the writer was. One thing was clear, though—it was none of the original 5!

The 6th Mysterious Writer:

I am obliged to give you a short background here. While there are 5 writers and one secret keeper, we also have 3 amazing readers.

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The hierarchy of Wringo

So as the theory goes,

“There is a writer in every reader”

we found a gem of an author among our readers! The 6th story was from the readers’ lot and it was AH-MAZING!!!

Read and enjoy this philosophical story of faith, spirituality, and sin!

For now, I will leave you with these beautifully crafted philosophical tales (since I need to brainstorm for the next week’s challenge—yes the dice has been rolled!).

See you next week with some more breathtaking stories!
Till then, happy reading =D

Is this the voice of happiness ?

Today I heard it,

After such a long time;

The sound of happiness!

It was a scream of joy

unchecked,

Escaped from a young girl,

Who was dripping wet,

Enjoying the rain.

She could barely breathe,

As the drops came tumbling

One after another,

They did not wait

for her to catch her breath.

 

My heart sank.

For I could not recall

The last time my voice

Had made that sound.

 

Ages had passed

Since I had

truly laughed.

The Standing Waters

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We are all entrapped

In the unpredictable prisons

Of our insecurities and wishes.

She walks a different walk

in foreign tongues she talks

Every single day,

She is a different shade of grey

They hate her for the reasons

Of her unstable treasons.

 

But that’s just her.

 

They have their issues too.

I saw a man happy once

Next moment he was found

Shouting in a pitch unbound.

 

Then there are others

Much much worse.

All smiles,

Sweet words

in piles.

And a bitter taste,

In my mouth is raised.

 

I saw them all,

Yesterday.

With a ball of ideas,

They played.

In a field of thorns, flowers aside.

Their goal was to commit suicide.

 

You ask of me?

But I am just fine

Far above the imaginary line

Of wrong and right.

I have seen it all,

Felt it all.

And I no have height,

From which to fall.

 

My wishing well,

Is so empty,

There is no space in it,

For heaven or hell.

A blank page;

No story to tell.

There is nothing to dread,

From someone so dead.