When the mere illusion of you disembowels everything I could possibly have – viscera, soul, thoughts, persona.

A simple carnation in a vase, harmless and quintessential. And absolutely unintrusive and indescript. Somehow its fragrance – its allure – is as enlighteningly modest as it is toxic. Addictive.

There is no antidote. There is no cure. There is no humane way of fitting between the cage. All there is left is to emasciate in a prison within a meadow, and watch longingly for just one dose. One little fucking dram. But there so much you know you cannot have. Forbidden. Sacriligious. Especially if this carnation is tended gingerly and meticulously.

You could open your mouth or flair your nostrils and there would be no way to avoid its charm. A stationary mesmer. An unproductive task with no perceivable reward.

All that you could never have.


A burst of blinding light like imprisoned fireflies in a tiny box, then a dither into nothing. A blankness. A bleakness. An obscurity.

Jackhammer to a steel beam, a cacophony of sounds, and a screech that rattles the prefrontal cortex and nanomizes thoughts. A migraine.

What it’s worth is not worth what it is. Heaving, gasping for air in a place with the cleanest, most pristine wind. Dehydration in the freshest of water. Distortions. Incapacitate.

Dreams become feathers. Material, but light and weightless. In another world, perhaps, we can feel the weight of dreams. But I’m here in a world I don’t belong. An anomaly. An alien. A juxtaposition between a human and a person. An unspectacularly ephemeral being.

Trees. Finding the upper limit of the sky, but will never make it before something burns them down. Deforested. Sheared by the human intervention.

Unfettering. Undying. Untying.

Undesirable. Unfinished. Unforgiving.

None of these words adequately describe the turmoils of an isolated heart.

Pitiful. Ridiculous. Cretinous. Arduous.

Words that describe a burden to vivacious minds.

Indecent. Inopportune. Inconvenient.

Diction that describes the role of a longing soul in a progressive society.

Tattered. Vivisected. Indolated.

Vocabulary for a damaged spirit.

Should. Would. Could.

All for a disgustedly melancholic being.

Like being me.

Tasteless. Leathery. Overstayed. Ataxic.

You’ve done what you needed to do. Now perhaps it is time to move on.

The train ride was eventful and pure, filled with dreams and aspirations and satiety. But now you’ve passed your stop 10 times and the tracks just keep getting rougher and rougher.

Most people never have to get off this train called life, but sometimes seats need to vacate. Someone has to pay for a transaction that was never made. Someone needs to be accountable for a crime never committed. Someone needs to go.

I’d say I wish I’d have volunteered to go, but I’ve already been chosen. Such a comment is robbed from its chivalry. It is just a job that needs to be done.

Soon, my stop will come, and there will be no consolidation. No mourning. No mural in the galleries of hearts. Just a routine happening. A relief, even. Or complete catharsis to the world.

I could cleanse the world of me. A small nova of iridescence and a vacuum. There would be one less plate to set. One less seat to reserve. One less salary to pay. One less petrified heart to bear. One less voice in a melange of billions. Not even an echo.

Two more stops before it’s mine. Admire the view across a pristine window – so transparent you’d be convinced it was immaterial. But you can’t touch the flowers, feel the wind or taste the rain. You can only sweat from an unbearable sun.

You have been to this stop before. There is no platform. No number. Not even an announcement. All you see is your feet facing down an abyss. An oblivion. No sea to save you. No flora to admire. No birds to sing. Just a dry cataclysm and many other lifeless, eviscerated bodies. Emasciated. Longing.

Soon, perhaps, you may add to this collection. Not even a sadist bothers to look down.

Doors open. Not even greeted on this coach. Don’t expect a farewell. Don’t expect appreciation.

Expect, instead, of relief. Expect a few smiles unseen. Expect a cloud of melancholy to fall with you.

Pulverized bones. Punctured pupils. Arms swinging back like a damaged figurine. All accompanied by a satisfying crunch.

And you will, too, become a speck in an abyssal canyon of rejection.