The Fictitious Reality

They all lie, don’t they? The mere irksome and piteous soul of these poets, painters and tentatively artists! They all have illustrated false images and have feigned about everything, especially love. For, all the theories, the paints and the abstracts written upon and love is just worthless as that mirage which materializes out of nowhere. A boy and girl holding hands-walking together-that hankering for each other-madly falling for each other and it’s all about the merriment and giggles.

Photo by Alex Powell from Pexels

However, we are all a part of this masquerade ball! It’s a hoax, for they don’t reveal the story in which they hurt each other and regret for being together and that all ends up in destruction. The never ending sufferings and the false, irrational hopes! While those counterfeit hysterical masks pile up everything else too. They destroy each other but love the process. Every fight is just like another drop of nirvana for them. Don’t expect me to always show you the brighter side and say that it’s helping them to understand each other in a better manner and that it enhances the bond between them, for somewhere love has made a hole in my heart through which the blood flows and it wets the floor everywhere I go, but no one sees it. People never notice the doldrums, they just smell the felicity written over my face and surmise that I’m fortunate, for I love someone and someone loves me!

How do they don’t know that someone ruins me a little every night and I ruin them a little the preceding one-and we stay anguished? It’s about the matter of time and the trait used. As the clocks ticks down the night, the ravings become more violent; then it’s only about who does the less damage. I know about theirs; but mine are no less. While they use the memories, I use ink for it let me scream through my pen. Yeah, it’s the ink and not the pen that let’s you commit the assassinations. The anatomy of animals certainly relates with this in a better way. Obviously, the vital organs, crucial veins and the inextricable layer of skin sums it up but it’s the blood-the salient blood which makes it buoyant and zestful. Else, it all would have been a mere collection of colorful spongy and boney artifacts juggling upon each other with the heart throbbing and taxing to still circulate the remains of blood with it’s rhythmic contraction and dilation everywhere.

Well, later the heart fails too, demystifying the things and everything turns into heaps of ashes. And then you discern, the ashes and not the blood, when the body gets flared up, and that leaves you in a major dilemma that was it the blood or the anatomy that actually assassinated? And you end up blaming the anatomy, for it being tangible!

-Sam 

 Ish