Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram

Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram,

 You may not know me at all, but I think you are very beautiful. You seem to have all the perfect moments. The perfect hairstyle, the perfect selfie, the perfect body, the perfect clothes. You seem to have a lot of awesome friends with even more awesome moments to spend with them. You and your boyfriend seem to be very much in love, with no problems whatsoever, forever celebrating the honeymoon phase of a relationship. A lot of people seem to admire you, Miss Popular that you are, with all those people praising you, all the love that they send out to you.

But what’s the story behind those pretty pictures? Are you honestly happy with how your life is? I’d like to get to know you better than just your pictures. Could we maybe share a cup of coffee together? Tell me about yourself, go on ahead, I’m a good listener.

Maybe the story behind the perfect hairstyle, was that your sister had come in town and she sat you down while she talked about her new life and did your hair. Or, maybe you were just bored so you whiled away your time watching YouTube videos about how to make your hair look pretty.

Maybe your body isn’t so perfect after all, at least that’s what you think. What if you post pictures of it, just to get comments about how sexy and hot you look, so you don’t feel insecure anymore? Or maybe you’re just proud of how you look, and not afraid to show it.

Ooh and tell me about the one time you went shopping out with your friends, and wore clothes simply to take pictures in the trial room. Maybe all girls have that one story to tell. 
And what about your friends? Do you have some sort of politics in it? Maybe you don’t like someone in the group, and maybe someone doesn’t like you, but when all of you pose for a picture, its all cheese and smiles.

I know you probably won’t tell me your boyfriend problems, or would you? Start off with the good things first, the way you feel safe around him, how he does sweet things for you, the way he took you out on a romantic date that one time. But you’re going to tell me about the bad times too aren’t you? That sometimes you’re afraid it won’t last, that sometimes you feel insecure, that sometimes both of you have fights that no one needs to know about because seriously, you just want people to keep thinking that you are #couplegoals. Please, don’t think it’s a cliché, for every person online wears a mask, and to pretend that the mask doesn’t exist, is itself a lesson on how to be a hypocrite.

Are you also going to tell me about the times when you look at other people’s profile, and about how imperfect you feel as compared to them? Oh, it’s a wild wild competition isn’t it?

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be a competition. It doesn’t have to be about who gets more likes, who’s more #couplegoals than you and your partner, it doesn’t have to be about who has more followers. Instagram, is simply a photo diary you like to keep public, and you can keep it in whichever way you want it. Don’t care about the haters, we all have got some. The point is, as long as you’re doing what makes you happy, you’re doing the right thing for you.
And as about the perfect moments, maybe they aren’t the ones you’ve put on instagram, the ones where you’ve “candidly” laughed at something with your friends. Maybe the perfect moment was sometime else, when all of you laughed about something silly, when your friend told you she believed in you, when he tucked your hair behind your ears, when you cried and your mother was there to hug you. 

Maybe, on second thoughts, I don’t know you at all because you are so much more than just pictures and those ‘perfect’ moments captured on camera.

The red flag when crisis strikes.

A group of young boys march up a steep hill, their innocent eyes guiding them. Their short breaths create mysterious clouds for the winds to blow on, they smile at each other and talk about their home in the mountains. Merrily inching their way slowly towards death, patriotism fueling their hearts. Their soft hands hold onto the rugged butt of the battered rifles, praying to them for their lives, with the god of war on their minds they move ahead.

Like sheep to the wolves the boys are sent to first line of offence. They look at themselves with sweat dripping on their faces, they smile at each other remember home and charge the enemy flanks like lightening. Their war cry in unison “AYO GORKHALI!” their khukuris flinging freely in the wind. Hundreds die a thousand left with injuries.

They still keep their smile now with dilated pupils with adrenaline to thank. They captured point zero three eleven and sent the enemy forces back with unpleasant memories to never forget. Now in the base camp the boys try to spot their friends so that they can return home, but all they find are dogtags with blood and khukuris scarred by the enemy for their families to remember them by.

They keep up the spirit and tell tales to each other and sing songs of love and war. Still fighting for their families still living for others on the edges of a sharp sword, the world glorifies them and remembers the brave heroes, but their nation remembers them as mere guards and aliens from a land far far away.

Amen.

An Excerpt from a Lunatic’s Heart

I think I’m in love with the moon,
Look at how well she dances,
The chivalrous clouds try to escort her,
The stars twinkling at her with jealous glances.

She wears a dress of silver spring,
She twirls on the sky like a magic orb,
Oh she has had me spellbound
So majestic, she makes my heart throb.

I feel at peace when I’m with her,
Like I could while away my time
Too mesmerised by her beauty true
I’ll stay with her, bathed in her shine.

Had she been a girl, what would she look like?
A goddess in a flowing waterfall
Her curves would be her craters, her eyes the darkness
She’d stand proud and tall.

She’d have hair of silken silver
Bruises too, for what art exists without flaws?
She’d move with beauty and divine grace
Yet, her mood swings would leave me thawed.

She’d wear a crown on her head, the Queen
And at night she’d stare at the sky alone
Wishing she were among the stars,
For in the sky she’d know was her home.

She’d dream and paint in art
She’d make the young and old swoon
Men would be mesmerised, women awestruck
Afterall, she’d be the moon.

What would the name be?
Or would she even keep one I wonder?
Oh, the most beautiful of them all
Every thought of her makes me ponder.

Maybe the sky feels the same way,
Blessed to have Her in its arms
Yet knows that no one can ever own her
For she’s made of dreams and unmatched charms.

Oh, I’d be so in love
Like never before,
I’d look at her every day
But my heart would still be sore.

For who would deserve such grace and beauty
I’d never be hers, even if I had to try.
So I look at the beauty in the sky again
The sky an ocean, they have all been there,
but alas,
only to cry.

Meals of fortune.

Echoes resonate inside my left ear, cries of men and women struggling for survival. Their voices fill my mind, they are lost deep within the enchanted forest but I can see their faces clearly. Eyes sunken with an eternal rain of fear and frustration, faces lost with the unanswered prayers through time. Lips chapped and torn like the barks of a century old tree, these crevasses filled with lies owing their origin to the magic of the tongue.

I watch the forest as it burns, smoke fill the oceans high above. The land of prosperity and peace turns into an ash tray almost instantly, the red GOD purifying the corrupt with the light elements breaking through everything. The once high and mighty crumble beneath it’s light feet, erasing their identities with a small squeal of satisfaction. I cannot do anything, I do not do anything, we started the fire with a cause and now we didn’t have any to extinguish it. I look towards my right, my captain shines with a smirk of contentment. My stomach crumbles and cramps, the innocent faces crying flash before my eyes.

I shut my eyes and ears and shout until I choke, my eyelids opens with dilated corneas. My platoon lay dead, my captain hung on a pole with a smirk on the left the other burnt. I run as fast as I can, a creeper holds my feet and I trip and hit my head on a rock knocking me out.

“Clahan!” I hear. “Come in for breakfast!”

I enter the room. Vanida strikes me with a lovely smile, my heart slips a little. “You’re gonna take my voice away one of these days.” she says. I smile and nod my head, the war took away my right ear drum, my mind is filled with their voices.

But when I see her, it all goes away. Gone like the wind.

The Truth behind the Sausages

“There’s a story that must be told,” said the old man looking up towards the sky as the fire crackled nearby. The children huddled up together in their blankets and stared at him, their huge eyes unblinking.

“Ah,” he sighed, “do you know how I met your grandmother?”

The little ones shook their heads. There were three of them wrapped up together in a blanket under the starry skies.

“It was a cold starry night just like this one. She was a bookish girl. We’d all heard stories about her.

People said that she had killed her parents for money so she could buy more books. They said she had a book in every nook and corner of her home. They even said that she sometimes ate the fingers of dead people when she needed to save money. Fingers deep fried so it would look like sausages…”

“Was that true Mami?” said the little 5-year old boy, terrified out of his wits.

“Ah, that’s the thing you see. At that time none of us were educated. So to see someone who’d actually read terrifies us savages. And what do we do when we see something unknown? We fear it. Like we feared her.

But I was an adventurer. I needed to see it all for myself. So one night, I ventured out. There was one light glowing in her wooden house. The girl was probably reading. When I knocked on the door, I had to wait for a few seconds before it opened. It was then that I saw her for the very first time.

And she was beautiful. She had long hair and big, wonderful brown eyes. I told her I wanted to learn how to read, and she, dying in want of companionship, gladly let me in.

Days turned into weeks and we quickly fell in love. There were times when we’d abandon the books and rest in each other’s arms instead.

In addition to her reading skills, she also had another talent; cooking. Needless to say, I fell even more in love with her.

We soon decided to get married.

It was a simple marriage. We hardly invited anyone. Yet, we were happy.

One day, somebody died in our village. It seemed to be a gruesome death and his fingers had been cut off.

I rushed to tell my wife about the strange happening but I stopped at the window where I saw her cooking. She had spices and oil and small pieces of meat, and behold! I almost screamed when I saw it.

They were fingers neatly sliced up by the side.

That night, she served me sausages. I was too terrified of her to not eat it. It looked like a sausage but tasted nothing like the normal kind. It felt more… fleshy than usual.

Repulsed, I pretended to tell her that I was allergic towards meat and since then, I have never touched meat, especially sausages, again.

I have remained in fear of your grandmother all my life. I was too scared to leave her, I didn’t want myself to be her dinner you know?”

The old man gave a dramatic pause and put out the fire, “Now, get going children. Run along inside. Your grandmother must be sleeping, be sure not to disturb her.”

In the darkness, the three children tried to swallow down the horrible grotesque story of their grandmother as they ran towards the cottage.

The old lady was waiting at the table with some left over food. “Ooh, there you are! My wonderful kids must be hungry,” she gushed. “Here, I made some sausages for you. Do you want it?”

She saw none of the usual enthusiasm in the kids. Instead she looked at the mute, ashen faced, horrified children and then understood what had happened.

She put the plate down and sighed, “Ah, I see. The old man has been telling stories again, hasn’t he? He always throws a fit when I tell him that sausages and fried things are not good for his health…”

Dinner bells of timber

Rays of light pierced though it’s shade, igniting the stove for it’s kitchen to burn on feeding a million souls. The air fills with the element of life, inflating the hollow walls of the lungs opening secret passages for the dark knights to dart on.

The dishes of the stomach rejoice on it’s rescue by the knights, the walls of narrow streets are filled with the mark of life. Juices from the heavens fill the great baths, washing the cells free from sin.

The granaries are filled with magic beans to last the next three hours. Portions of the magic bread are traded with works of the muscle. Transported through the routes of silk, bright and dusty, narrow and steep.

The king sits on his crown of convolutions, teasing his intelligence every second. He sets out commands around the kingdom, from his palace above the atlas carefully balanced on a break point.

The ten calloused workers act on his commands without a thought of third. The kingdom grows everyday with demands increasing with time, desires slowly turning into needs.

The mighty ones are uprooted their lives ruthlessly squeezed out of them, turning them into paper for ink to bleed on.

Remember your Milestones

Remember this achievement, this wonderful promotion. Your face glowed with joy and you felt like nothing could make you happier. Your hard work had paid off.

Remember your first day at this job, the ecstasy you felt. After years of struggling, you finally found something you’d actually wanted to spend your whole life doing.

Remember your first job, the curiosity with which you came in. You weren’t really sure whether you wanted this for the rest of your life, but it felt like you were gathering experience for something bigger.

Remember your first pay check, the excitement as you held that envelope in your hands. You had only passed out of school and started doing an internship. Here was the fruit of your labor. You felt like an adult then.

Remember your first high school love. You were in your teens and madly in love. Every poem started to make more sense and every song became one about your lover. The flowers you picked were all for her, and the dresses you wore were all for him. It was innocent, it was sweet, and when heartbreak came, it wrecked you and left you a little more grownup than before.

Remember the first trophy you ever held in your hands. You had spent hours practicing and working for this big competition and you won. It made you feel like you could do anything in the world, even conquer it.

Remember the first time you rode a bicycle by yourself. Your father was behind you and he clapped when you finally could ride by yourself without his help. With the wind, came the first rush of independence.

Remember the first time you helped your mom make a pancake. She said she didn’t need your help but you put your little hands in the flour anyway, it was squishy and it felt nice.

Remember the first time you learned how to walk. You were crawling on the floor, and the next minute, you had propped yourself up with the help of the table. You made your parents proud that day.

Remember the happy faces of your parents when you let out your first cry. You may not have noticed it then, but your mother had tears in her eyes too.

Remember your mother’s words and her sweet voice as she rocked you to sleep. It made you feel safe and sound.

Sometimes you can still hear her sing,
“It’s a great big world out there,
And there is always somebody to love you…”

The world and it’s worlds.

The high bells ring in alarm. The world is bleached red, blue skies concealed within thick impenetrable clouds of smoke and ash. Cries fill the walls of a city that once resonated with life and hope. Ravens flee to the lands of simplicity, carrying precious diamonds with them.

The waters infested with travellers from the dark trenches of Yagdrasel, they ram their way through the clustered villages like bulls on their matadors. The living pray for their lives, the dead for theirs. All is lost. The king loses his mind, like the treasury did it’s treasures. Children hide below their beds and their parents below theirs.

Fear has crept inside the minds of the people leaving the hearts vulnerable. Freezing their muscles and turning bones to dust.

 

(To be continued.)

Queen

They always judged her. For the way she looked, the way she walked or the way she talked.

She knew it all. The whispers behind her back but she tried to act strong and happy anyway.

They called her names. She just sat and then said nothing. She wished for some company but then all she knew was that people pretended. The world really seemed like a theater at this point. People could ACT so well. They pretended to care, to be friends, and then be the complete opposite behind her back.

One day, she decided it was too much. How long would she keep being miserable? How much would she keep feeling sick?

She decided to pick up a paintbrush and DO something. Her eyes saw the canvas. She splashed the dark colors in it. With her own hands, she made patterns. A hand begging for life here. A soul asking to be released there.

Her.

The moon looked beautiful that night. The stars shone bright. In the midst of the mysterious night, she stood there in a white gown;a dark beauty. Tonight her hair was down to her waist and her eyes saw hope.

The lake rippled as if it felt the energy surrounding it. The night was cold. Chills ran down her spine. But she was a woman of the night. She was a Queen waiting to be reclaimed on the throne of Paradise.

The ship came that day; on time. One appeared with the sails fluttering quietly. The ships glided over the dark waters as cautiously like a snake sneaking on its prey.

“I have been waiting,” she said. The ship remained silent.It stayed powerful and strong, yet bowed to Her Highness.

With one last look to her canvas, she touched the sails of the boat and mounted it.

It carried her away.

The next morning, the people saw her masterpiece.

A Queen sailing on a ship called Death.

She was never seen again.

xxxx

Small Big World

It’s a pleasant evening, the sky is painted with the colour of oranges, the sparrows are returning home after a long day of search. They chirp merrily as the day has much to celebrate, a treasure of twigs and a feast of worms.

A light breeze blows across the plains and the woodland trees sing to it’s tune filling the enchanting land with music.
The squirrel jumps from one branch to another trying to find it’s favourite evening nut, which it happily munches on looking at the setting sun from the highest branch of the tree.

The deers stop grazing and look at the ravine with fear bottled up in their eyes. A fat water buffalo emerges from the dark, breaking the bottle returning back the deer’s lost breath.

The mighty horned beast slips quietly into the grey pond and disappears beneath the mud filled water, it cools down and settles for a short power nap.

A tiger spies on it from a distance, inching it’s way towards the buffalo concealed beneath the thick bushes. It’s eyes glow with hunger, a smirk on it’s face flashes with it’s killer instinct. It makes it’s way to a big tree over hanging the lake in which the buffalo lies submerged. The tiger waits for a moment and then leaps.
A man 200 metres away carefully scopes on the tiger as his target, laying down flat on the ground covered with creepers. He loads his weapon and holds his breath, double checks on the wind direction and speed. He closes his left eye, stares at the tiger’s eye and then fires.

The monkeys start chattering loudly, the cries span the entire forest. They hold onto their young ones and enclose them inside a warm hug.

Their eyes glisten with a blinding bright red colour, a loud boom echoes through the jungle walls silencing everything else. The trees burn and make firewood for the dead. Everything changes into dust, the skies turn grey enveloping the land of life with darkness.

The human president takes the keys off the switch and sips on his extra dark coffee and looks at the Earth engulfed by flames. A smile of satisfaction stretches through his face.

His spaceship returns back to it’s course, off to Trappist-1.