Pseudo Writer

Once upon a time in a land far far away, lived a little girl and a horse chewing hay. The girl kept waiting for miracles to happen, and randomly, they met a fairy on the way. It was the start of a journey very long, and all of it was rhythmic like a song, but I don't know how it deviated from path, and they ended up in a war of right vs wrong. This must feel like a very familiar story, for it's a fairy tale blueprint, from the inventory, and most of us grew up reading these, and our childhood is their times of glory. But is this the life we expect in our core, or is this a world unreal enough to ignore? Is this a story worthy enough to remember, or is this to be left at the childhood's shore? And if it was to be left when we reached our prime, how could snow white survive the test of time? And how could the glowing tooth fairy make sure, that every broken tooth is replaced by a dime? How could the Frankenstein still scare us to heap, and how co...

In the heart of the country, lived a man very insignificant. He is long forgotten by the place, and his house has long been vacant. There are streets he used to pass by, and the people he used to walk past, and the flurry of greetings that he exchanged; all of them, alive in a diary of his past. His days might be dark now, and he might not have enough to feed the keen, but he still feeds the birds as he did, when light was the only thing he had seen. He still walks out, in the first rain, without an umbrella, looking at the sky, and even though his vision is clouded now, his clouds can never hide the clouds that fly. He is still kind with the people, with whom no one else ever tries to be, and still has a heart big enough, to cry for them when there is noone to see. He still trusts people, after all the betrayals, and still gets broken by people under his sight. Maybe he is really stupid to make such mistakes, or maybe faith in comrades lets him sleep at night. ...

Some days, I just walk down the way, and look around the concrete-forests as they say. But what we often forget at times, is that this concrete was incubated from clay. Wet deformed clay that was left behind, withered by a tug of war between cruel and kind, and the only silver lining that we got from it , was the freedom to shape the clay by our mind. And this is why we celebrate this day, so those who freed us have confidence to say, that no matter what set of events may succeed, freedom will always carve its way . Some will find their freedom in the range of their sight, while some will find their freedom in the food they bite. Some will find their freedom in the games they play, while society will find its freedom when people will unite. Some will find their freedom in the little texts they write, while some will find their freedom in flying of a kite. And at the dawn of the day, when society wakes , our freedom will be alive in every fundamental right. But then...

Monster stories have never ceased to amaze me, and not only because they are well written. Whether it's the blood-sucking vampires or Dracula, their king, whether it's the one-eyed cyclopes or the horned minotaur, whether it's the big-footed bigfoot, or the big-toothed werewolf, despite being figments of imagination, they are as well known as dinosaur. So why was this concept introduced in our society? Maybe to scare the children to sleep, or maybe to keep in check, the superstitious heap, or maybe to destroy the solitude of shadowy spaces, or maybe to create stories worthy to keep. Or maybe these stories were diversions, to give monsters, unfathomable identities, so that when we think of monsters, the images in our mind are never-to-be-found entities. Providing us with a sense of security, letting us feel protected, feel presence of light. M aking us forget the reality of our situation, making us overlook the monsters that hide in plain sight. Monsters ...

On some dark days, I often wonder, in this beautiful place that I live in, what did I ever do, to deserve this? Looking at the bubble that I live in, this bubble of deception that saves me, from the horrifying realities of this place, I often question, what did 'they' do? Those who were not fortunate enough, to be in this bubble when the storm came, they had to drown, while I watched, helpless, not able to do a single thing. And those who could do something, the ones having the power to change lives, I could not see them, for they were hiding, behind their own one-way glass bubbles. I wanted to know, if they feel what I do, if their conscience lets them sleep, while the world is awake in agony, but all I saw, all I heard, was deception. For if those words of sympathy were true, wouldn't things be better now? Or maybe they are not as powerful as I think, maybe they are helpless in their own way, and this is what this world around me is; an inevitable...

I have often wondered, on some nights, when the sun did not set, and I turned off the lights, that do I love this silence, or do I just like it, shall I keep my mind calm, or shall I hike it? And yet I find myself in quest for an answer, of a wonderful cliche, i.e. what is love? Maybe you can love your partner, or maybe your parent, maybe you can love your sibling, or maybe someone different. Maybe you can love a pizza, or maybe a cake, maybe you can love the mountains, or maybe a lake. Yet my question's answer still remains hidden, as if talking about it is in itself, forbidden. So let's just try to define it myself, and then I will put the question back on shelf. I feel that love is a four letter word, used by many of us at many events, and when we can't explain what we feel, we use this word as an easy replacement. It is a word having a lot of layers buried in it, for it is made up of the uncertainties we bear. It's our need to articulate what we...

An old man once told me, that if you take a fictional book, and read its content carefully, very often you will find, the writer, hiding behind its words, in the character traits and little incidents, in the plot, between insignificant events. And on closer look you will find, that the author of the book may be one, but the stories in it have multiple authors, for his twelve and twenty-two year old selves, both are sharing their stories on the same shelves; It's a wonder how the event remains same, and yet time alters the story in retrospect. And as the character arcs will progress, there would be moments of bravery, of passion, and moments of hesitation, of compassion; all of them, hidden behind stories. It may be a story of regrets devouring a soul, or maybe a story of someone's unachievable goal, or maybe a bizarre story of playing whack-a-mole. It's an enigma how the smallest of moments can hide the simple and complex with equal ease. And the desi...