Pseudo Writer

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...

Maybe, I am writing a poem, or maybe I am just talking to notepad. Maybe, I will publish this somewhere, Or maybe this will be lost in my diary. How fascinating a single word can be? 'Maybe' ; a word I have often found, lingering around, in my sentences, and I cannot help but wonder, how much weight this word carries. Maybe I am completely wrong about it, or maybe I am right on the point. But I have often found myself hiding; hiding behind this single word. Maybe I will become who I have aspired to, or maybe I will become someone I condemn. Maybe I will eat the last piece of chocolate, or maybe I will save it for my sibling. Maybe I will help people just because I can, or maybe I will stand at the sidelines, watching. Maybe I will do my assignment today, or maybe I will do it an hour before submission. Maybe this world is a place worth residing in, or maybe it is something we just have to bear. Maybe I will eat homemade dinner, or maybe I will have a tak...