Picture this.

Picture a boy strangled to his own imaginative paradox. Picture someone with disfigured, repulsive and patchy thoughts in a straight body, having the perfect bad bushy hair. An all time undisputed champ of “Please judge me for my shabby appearance and dusty soul” competition.

See also : Comfortable but ugly chappals.

See also : A total colour blunder in the name of what goes on with what.

Picture a pretentious wannabe fuckpiece roaming in the posh areas of South Delhi. Picture his longing eyes wandering for enoughness tirelessly, only to be shamed by call of retrieval. Picture a boy who never knew the ways of men despite reaching the age where he could be called one.

A boy liked by none,not even by himself had slept for 12 hours straight so now you can judge him for being happy. He is funny. As in looks funny and talks funny. Eh,must not be depressed. Because that’s what people in depression avoid doing. He doesn’t like holding pointy objects though. He doesn’t like going to higher places or walking alone on the bridge. He is afraid to do all these things,so he mustn’t be depressed.

Sadness? Oh,he definitely got bored of that too. Yes,people can get bored of sadness without being happy. It’s called lifelessness. Let’s not call this depression because it’s a big word. Because there are always some Gurus and “goodquote” people on Instagram who advise people to cutoff from such kind. Because if a generous person hears about it,he might advise the boy to do the same and wouldn’t that be something considering the fact that the only negative person he knows is himself?

So he is not a pro lifer but he mustn’t be depressed because he is scared by the idea of ending a human life.

So picture a boy never been loved by anyone. He is just tolerated and controlled by people around him because they are nice humans. They sympathize with him and yet they never adored him or loved him. More like they are holding down the frustration because he is pitiable. Because he could use some kindness. Because he mustn’t feel that he is all alone and shouldn’t consider them ‘not so nice’ people afterall.

Picture this miserable human who can’t even fall in love because he isn’t allowed to. Because he is held by idea that only achievers, vibe givers, optimists and lookers deserve love. Picture his empty hands when he finally fell in love but couldn’t offer anything. So he might just shut himself and lock himself in the room of worthlessness while the key of hope is destroyed.

But nah,he mustn’t be depressed because it is a big word.

Picture his parched soul waiting to be watered by self worth in a drought prone land of desires. Now picture his agony giving in to apathy. Picture this poor boy who doesn’t even know what he wants. Picture this purposeless maggot who-now-doesn’t care what he wants.

Picture the transition of a deluded innocent kid to a boy who was eluded from every single thing that can be called ‘normal’.

What do you see?

What do the pictures look like?

If you play it as motion picture, would it become a cult classic?

Let’s not call it art because it lacks visionary pain or maybe because depression is a big word and there’s yet to be discovered a land where compassion grows.

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Control is an illusion

I will tell you all about it.Everything.

The basic analogy is related to the formulation of a dream. You don’t remember the starting point;there is none. You’re always in the middle of every dream you’re dreaming. The build up is heavily dependent on the context of scenarios you propagate daily. The voices in my head are real people;atleast to me.The characters resting in my notes folder are real people.

I will tell you how we meet.

I know it because I wrote it

Humans; too many of them to bear with. With a little fidget enters anxiety. And with the crippling anxiety surmounting as the time passes by,you develop traits..some of them you never wished for. Things aren’t easy if you’re in the constant state of paranoia; trust never comes easy to you. But you have to live. You have to let go of that routine you’re holding on to ,every night. You have to find a way to crack the routine which involves swallowing pills at unfathomable rates. Like,I said,you develop traits;out of extreme exasperation. A call for help is made. Too bad,the receiver is you. It isn’t a gift, it’s the never ending disease whose sole purpose is to entertain the existence of this human form.

I will tell you how I meet them.

I know them because I wrote them.

I lack substance, volume and visibility which a naked eye can percieve. Me ,him and all of them are clever enough to sync. Clever enough to pour in the substance this world craves. Clever enough to morph our squares into cube and thus have the irreversible volume.

I will tell you all about it. Everything.

You are in Malviya Nagar metro Station. You see faces you have never seen in your life but somehow you get this uneasy feeling of Déjà vu. It takes 3 minutes for a truly messed up but highly functional brain to join the dots and do a background research. So I switch off. I wake up at Hauz Khas. All set with my version of story; adulterated one. I was always good with imagination. I don’t like that overly extroverted guy who is going to approach me soon and ask me about my opinion on DUSU election. I had already assumed him as a glib brainwasher.

This is how I meet him.

I know him because I wrote him.

With little imagination you can escape reality.

With enough imagination you can control time and space.

So I switch off.

I log back in at Green Park and I see a bunch of wannabe edgelords going berserk. The alpha class in the world of betas and thetas. The bully mongers. The loud unsophisticated crew of generic maggots trying their best to gather attention. The not so artsy classy guys. You see them and you see everything you want to be. This can very well be their escape. Afterall,masculinity lost its virtue way back when the great wars were over. We are the generation of mental patients fighting our own wars and this metro route is their war zone for time being.

This is how I meet them.

I know them because I wrote them.

So I smile.

So I switch off.

Everything is so yellow in the metro. The lights, the pale faces of people,the screens they are tapping their fingers on.. Everything.

So I switch off.

Doors opened on the left this time. Central Secretariot,it is. An urge awakes too. An urge to get rid of monotonicity. So you go out and you walk. And you walk..and you just walk till you’re in the visibility range of Amar Jawan Jyoti. You walk back. All of this to get tired and finally sleep. You breathe a sigh of relief as your eyes are shutting slowly. Things are still yellow but tolerable.

So you switch off; involuntarily this time.

This is how I meet myself.

You wake up at Malviya Nagar.

Error 404 : Déjà vu.

Art

Unlike my last act of sanity ,where everything required consent,this was different.This defied pragmaticism. 
I swam through..all the way through,fighting my dizzy senses with utmost glibbery,just to ascend my conscious form.

With unserene thoughts joining cynicism in colossal range,I had a perfect recipe of kissing death,several times.

An enigma had my demons beg for more,crave for more.Poised with the unbounded falsary ,I didn’t want to understand.

I let go of myself,melted into the intimidating scenery.

I fell for the art in her.

Didn’t know my fear was the last thing I’d be begging to face. Didn’t want to understand.

I fell for the art in her.

Never saw the moving poetry,never was lucky enough. Never saw rage as a poetic device,never was disgusted by the quiescence. Never wanted to slip into the depths of puzzles. Never wanted to not to understand it.

I fell for the art in her.

And then I open my eyes only to realize that the fight of fighting reality with dreams was a fiction too.

Time demands seclusion and nonchalant environment for sinking the sadness in,but she won’t let me do it.

I truly fell for the art in her.

She is permanently tattooed in my mind,inscribed on my soul and framed in my heart like a photograph.

Funny thing this mind,creates a perfect memory and fiction.

So when I close my eyes,she is there. 

She is there..still in a photograph taking me far away from the very reality I despise.

I too had a dream..