The Passion

 Her eyes glimmered of shame, a slow blink of deceit,
She moaned, as the hands reached out,
Minds intertwined in a unison of synchronized breath,

Did I betray?

She sighed, I sighed with her.
The clock chimed a midnight rhyme, as she sank into me,
Her gaze, a death stare, I froze, I molted.

Did I betray?

Night is young, I proclaimed,
Her beauty, unrivaled, my sin, the ugly truth.
The flowers bled, staining the sheet, she sighed.

Did I betray?

Her gentle caress, a soft-spoken moan,
I cupped her heart, she stroked my soul,
Something broke, we never spoke.

Did I betray?

Thirty silver coins, the price of a bargain,
Her head on a stake, "witch," the world screamed,
My pleasures, my own, but...

Did I betray?

Her screams, a nightmare to my dreams,
I wake, I try, sleep my mistress, I her slave,
Guilt a torch to bear, sins of mine.

Did I betray?

Greyed by time, age all but a delusion,
I crave none but her screams.
Am I true to myself, or...

Did I betray?

Assassin's Last Stand

Hope is a misnomer. It should be called, "hanging on", or one better, "holding on", but calling it "hope"..., that just gives it too much teeth to bite into. I am not one of those "despaired" NEETs. I am just realistic. And in this universe, hope is what gets you desperate. Not dead, desperate for death. I come from a long line of assassins, and we are good at our job. So, take it from an expert - Hope is not something you hold onto. It is something that gets you killed.

Water? Are you really serious? Water is what you want when I am monologuing about my dreams and aspirations? You are a funny person! A brave one at that, but anyway, I will not deny a dying person their last wish. Water is what you want - you can have it, but once I am done lamenting about the "Tragedy known as life". 

What? You’re dying of thirst?  It’s funny... I thought you were dying from the bullet in your chest. Maybe you're mistaking your dying breath for thirst? Anyway, who am I to deny a last wish... Here, take a sip.  

Hey! Don't spit it out! It’s the only liquid I have on me, and it’s expensive. 

Unbelievable!!!!! You are a remarkably rude person to spit out top-shelf Old-Monk.

I am sorry, I am an emotional person. I quickly get offended when people "waste" luxury—you see, I am from a very poor background. One meal, shared between five siblings per day, with nothing to quench our thirst. I know what you are thinking: "Line of assassins?" I did not lie back there, I am from a line of assassins. Assassins are actually poor—and horny. They make a looooot of kids, and feeding them is not an easy job on an assassin's salary. You should listen to what my spouse has to say about my line of work. To be honest, they are expecting a Claude subscription paid in full for the next six months from the job I am doing right now—"you," in case that was confusing. Death is confusing, and I am an empathetic person. I've got your back, but you see, my kids are in big peril: train in AI to get a job, get a job to buy an AI subscription,  subscribe to bigger models to keep the job... you get the picture - Truly a Predestination movie with their career as the protagonist. 

Anyway, we have been talking a lot about me, what about you. Is your spouse naggy and bitchy like mine... You don't have to say it out loud if you are not comfortable. Just nod. I will understand. You do realize it's rude not to answer questions!!! I understand that your lungs are punctured, and every breath you take is kind of filling your lung cavities like a balloon, and that you would mostly suffocate to death in another... hmm.... five minutes --- but not answering a question is still rude. 

Hey!! Keep your eyes open, I am not yet done. I can smack you around a bit if it will help you concentrate. You should stop being a drama queen, I think I have had enough of your deep sighs and labored breathing.

Hey... hello? ... your attitude to this conversation is making this very one-sided. 

You know what, I am having second thoughts on the legitimacy of our conversation, I no longer know what is real and what is unreal. Am I escaping from my domestic duties by creating a victim in you? Are you a real person whom I have just shot? I no longer know what is real. You tell me, is my struggle more important than the hope you are still clinging to? If I really shot you, then your hope is meaningless - You will most probably suffocate and die. If on the other hand you are a figment of my imagination, then your hope and aspirations are an escape for me - I still have hope. But, again, I can hear your labored breath - Are my senses playing a game with me? Do I really exist, or am I your figment of imagination. Maybe you wanted to die, and you created an "assassin" in your mind to free you of your earthly abode. I feel I am your imagination.

I exist for you not to despair.

I exist for you to have "hope".

The Barnum Paradox

Red is an interesting color; it signifies pain, danger, fear, and sometimes loneliness. I hear that you are looking for a cure, a cure to loneliness, but take it from a veteran, there is no cure. Maybe the gods could smile at you and bless you, but loneliness—it's your compatriot. You did not push people away, you did not want them to disappear, but deep down, you wonder if it was your fault. I say, it's a trap, don't listen to it, but again, I am just a fellow stranger—loneliness makes strangers of bedfellows.

I had a lover—I will not shy away from stating the truth as the truth. Now, love is a very confusing feeling when you have not confessed it yet. They are unaware of your feelings, but for you, they are the world.

Pardon me, "crush" would be a better term, I believe. The current generation has a knack for un-romanticizing anything and everything.

Whom do you have a crush on?

Ah... silence. Of course. You don't have to answer. I can already see it in the way your eyes avoid mine.

They don't know, do they? Why would they?

Don't glare at me like that. I only asked.

I might have ruffled a feather there — don't hold it against me, it's a habit, I can't help it. You do look like a saint, able to forgive any transgressions — transgressions of me, a mere mortal. But pray tell, why did they move on? I am sure you would not have done anything to upset them. Is it a crime to be yourself?

You don't have to defend yourself to me. Being yourself isn't a crime—and who were they to judge you?

I am sorry, I am bad-mouthing your crush, but again, they did not make you feel special, but I can...

I can see you're still trying to excuse them. You don't have to. They never showed you the same kindness. If harsh words are all you have left, perhaps they've earned them.

I can tell you about my life, but we are not here to talk about it. I am not a psychic, but I do read the tension in the room. Therapy will only go so far — I can vouch. I had a therapist listen to my ramblings for a week, a whole stupid week, and what did I get in return?

There it is again—that vacant stare. You don't seem interested.

Have you been to a therapist? Just a curious question.

The way you avert your gaze gives it away. Was it your lover?  Was it your "crush"? You did open your heart to a therapist. And was it worth the money? Or did you just want to sound "relevant"?  Yay #therapyForLife

Looking at the floor again? Of course. It’s easier to study the carpet than to admit you suffocated them. You loved them so hard you didn't leave them any room to breathe, did you?

So, you did enjoy it - suffocating them with love. There is nothing wrong in enjoying a bit of pleasure, but enjoying it for the sake of enjoyment — I might be a harsh judge on that. Where is your sense of victimhood?

I am not trying to paint a bad picture of your lover, but an abuser is always an abuser. Not loving you back is the biggest abuse. Abandoning you and walking away, when all you needed was an ear to cry to

You still think if you'd been gentler, kinder, quieter... they might have stayed. Maybe you should have shared your vulnerabilities with them; maybe then they would have let you be. The lovers of this world only exist to fix what they love. I think you were too broken for them to fix.

You're angry. I can hear it, even if you refuse to say the words aloud. You should not hate them for not seeing your pain. You should hate them, though, because your love was not enough for them. Maybe your hate is what will evoke a reaction in them. Human beings are stupid — it's like poking someone with a red-hot iron; they are petrified. Hate is similar; people freeze when they encounter fear.

You, my amour, need not fear. I will not let the past repeat in your life. I will keep you safe from your tormentor, the person who rejected your love. I accept it. I accept you for whom you are. My arms are always open for you.

Alas, I but have a condition. You should reject your old self. It was poison. I will craft a new self for you. I will craft a new you.

What? You reject?

Sorry for being so possessive. I love you, my love. Why do you hold on so dearly to the very self that drove love away? It’s selfish! You owe it to yourself — to us —to let that selfish, needy version of you die. Let me strip away the guilt. Let me take away the burden of what you ruined. I am not asking for much, only that you surrender your corruption to me.

I know you're resisting. Everyone resists the cure at first. Shh... don't struggle.

You can't be so selfish that you would choose not to change for love. You have already done so once—rejection is pain, I understand. Let me strip away your flaws. Let me empty you out. I am not the same as them; I will love you, I will cleanse your blemishes, you should let me recast you in a mold which is pure. You are but an angel, only defiled by the promise of love. Let me restore you.

Let me restore you in my image, for I am you, I am the voice which screams "Red" in your nightmares.

The Purple Room - 3

 I know I am repeating this all over again, and I am not at all apologetic about it. There is a rhyme stuck in my head, and every time I try to pen it, I miss-rhyme it. There is that un-explainable  blind spot in my brain, like the cobwebs, which do not let me see beyond my mistakes. Yet, every morning I wake up, yet, every morning I repeat my life, yet, every evening I go back to sleep - no rhyme-or-reason.

The question has been haunting me for a while, and I have been ignoring its constant rasp - an uncomfortable itch against the back of my brain. It was during these troubling times I met Marybeth, a fellow inmate with me, chirpy and lively, yet miserable at heart. She was in for arson, and I could always see a glow in her eyes when she mentioned the burning county-fair, where she was finally apprehended. No remorse though, only a glow of the unspent embers, waiting for their turn. She was also the one who introduced me to the cellars, damp and earthy caves under the recreation room. She would slip out from the small crack below the last bench, unnoticeable to the guards, until I caught up with her. She was forced, I would believe it rather, and did not voluntarily introduce me to the cellars. 

Her reasons were simple, "They mess with your reality", she would say. I knew better. The thief in me always justified being in a place without being needed. The thief in me always found a reason for being in possession of things which I didn't own. "They never wanted it." I would say. "They never owned it", I would justify, and every day we would venture into the unexplored depths of the cellar. At first there were just cobwebs; then there were the graves. Marybeth was least flustered by their presence, I swallowed my fear, and put a brave front - typical of a thief. Eventually we ventured into a royal burial ground. It did not happen over night, but over several days. It was evident the day we stumbled across it, compared to the other graves littering the cellar, this one stood out, a dead end you might say, a large hall with its own ornate entrance. Even the treasures were bigger.

 Oh, wait I never mentioned the treasures till now.

My bad - but every grave has some form of a memorabilia buried along as a treasure, and I and Marybeth have been robbing the graves off these valuables. Cigarettes are what we trade these trinkets with, and at times a bar of soap, I hope the grave masters do forgive our cravings and the need for a clean bath.

The royal burial ground was different, there were no trinkets, there were no potteries, only a wooden casket, containing a journal. I was not confused, or bewildered - I have seen the craziness of the rich during my life, Marybeth was fuming with anger. "At least these morons could have left something worth trading", she retorted. I didn't pay much heed to her. "There always are more graves to rob", I chimed in, while I pocketed the journal. The journey back to recreation room was uneventful, a periodic grunt of irritation followed by a click of self motivation. Marybeth, though irritated, was good at consoling herself.

I waited for the evening to settle in before exploring the journal, Marybeth was fantasying about her myriad arson, while I turned the pages of the journal. The author did seem confused, finding solace from the windowless room. I could sympathize - I was also in a windowless room. The initial pages spoke about the loneliness, I sympathized, no empathy though, only sympathy. I didn't realize when I dozed off, but sleep was peaceful.

I woke up to Marybeth engrossed in the journal. I frowned - she grumbled - "This guy really enjoyed setting things on fire.". It was not until evening I got my hands on the journal. Since Marybeth had messed up my progress with journal, I started from the beginning - the author was in search of solace, trapped  within a windowless room, with pie for a brain. "This girl reads like me", I retorted to Marybeth, she smirked and went back to her sleep. The journal mirrored my life, and I felt motivated - some one stuck within the rut of a life I was in and came out victorious.  I read the journal cover to cover.

"What did you mean by the journal being a mirror of your life ?" My question irritated Marybeth a bit. "After Coffee", she replied.

At the coffee table, after the first sip, she continued her monologue - "My life is written verbatim in the journal, every little flame  I kindled."

"You are kidding?", I revolted. The journal was about a thief, and not about an arsonist, I was sure about it.

"No. Screw you, you are a leech waiting for an opportunity, stupid dumb bitch".  Marybeth's insult didn't really sit well with me. Words led to scuffle, hair pulling, and a shiv to my side.

Marybeth opened the journal in my face as I lay holding onto my life. "It was never about you," she hissed, her voice a jagged rasp. "This isn't your story; it’s my legend".

She flipped the pages on my face as I lay gasping for air. She flipped through the empty pages as I lay gasping for air.