Most girls think of boy bands.
Most girls think of heart throbbs
But they are shallow
I am not like Most girls
My crush was not with a throbbed
Or a boy singer
But with a doctor
A Most unusual
Was there something wrong with
Me
At the f**king time
I will never know.
I am not like Most girls

My poems, novels, and original music might be discovered by some alien civilisation someday. Why do I express faith in aliens? My real-world people and other inhabitants of the planet are too self-absorbed.

I don't blame anyone. I can’t blame anyone. Who would I spare if I begin to judge?

Strangers seem apathetic, but what have my people done for me? My former friends, colleagues, and distant relatives all refuse to even read my free poems.

I have stopped expecting. What good would a mechanical marriage be? If you can't admire my art and validate my efforts in life, why should I marry you?

If I were a rich kid to start with, I'd have hired a public relations manager. I'd pump millions to build my image. I'd make everyone read even my premium novels.

And then you'd have seen I'd probably have been happy.

They have seen me smile a lot. I have a smiling face like my father. But is happiness all about smiling? Is it about killing my desire for validation and acceptance, for admiration and appreciation?

Why do I expect validation? Because they have invalidated my existence. They collectively considered me an inconsequential fool after I endured brain-damaging injuries in that coma-inducing, high-speed bike accident on May 7, 2010.

People are sadists. They happily presume negatives about me just because I survived that accident. I expected acceptance from her, but she was too self-absorbed for imparting such healing effects.

I shouldn't have agreed to get married to her. Why? She started avoiding me the next day onwards. It's not like her work kept her busy. However, she somehow got time for Instagram Reels. When I objected, she misbehaved further.

She called my art outdated. The injuries have healed almost completely. However, I can’t heal from the misgivings. And not just because of her. Even my colleagues, friends, and relatives have invalidated my efforts to rise from the depths of depression.

They cited their busyness whenever I requested them to read my premium novels, or even experience my free poetry, or listen to my free music.

From her I expected validation and empathy, understanding and acceptance. But all she gave me was indifference and apathy. She should've understood my situation after more than a decade of social boycott I have faced due to my temporarily disabled state. And she's doing her course in special education, where teachers ought to inculcate the virtues of empathy and kindness. She didn't have any of it. She just reminded me of the apathetic society.

The society had suggested my parents help me establish a roadside candy stall because they thought (or rather hoped) that I may never return to a normal life after such a major road accident. Their small minds made them presume that, similar to Bollywood movies, I'd never completely return to a normal life. They even gave me the nickname of Ghajini after figuring out that I have the diagnosis of short-term memory loss.

I not only completed my pending B.Tech., but I also attained a postgraduate M.Tech. in Animal Biotechnology. They still judged me negatively. During the PhD course, they set up impediments. The obstacles they presented me with were both moral and systemic. I understood that they were not educated enough to help such special cases as me.

I'm professionally successful, and I have ample investments too. But I dearly required the world to read my novels and poems and even listen to my free music back at that time. It'd validate my existence. However, now I figure out that I’m not ever going to be validated by anyone.

Now I feel hopeless about the future of human society. For more than 15 years, I've been experiencing such ignorance. They didn't even read the novels I gifted to them, the thankless people.

I'm sorry to say it, but the society has disappointed me. They refused to give me an opportunity to prove that I'm worthy beyond the physical limitations even after the cataclysmic accident.

Now I'm creating a dystopian future by writing predictive fiction. In my 2021 novel titled "Swansong: A Tribute?" I had accurately predicted the ongoing hostilities between Bhaarat and Pakistan.

Next, in the same novel, I predicted a China-centric World War in the near future. They don't pay attention to my words. But I have a knack for predicting things.

Why should anyone pay attention to my words? Who am I?
I'm just a lucky survivor.

Your tongue is tied,
cramped from its labor:
lip-service and laments,
twisting prophecy from parking tickets,
doom from unloaded dishwashers.
You monologue like a thundercloud,
over breakfast,
foretelling despair,
in the sogginess of cereal,
and how the day didn't start off
with just the right tone,
the sun glinting through the window
"wrong".
Every spilled cup is symbolic
every sigh a soliloquy.
You speak in psalms of pity
as if your calendar
were made for tragedies,
names written in expo,
scheduled to take turns
making you the victim.
Imagine the audacity
And when the world doesn't end,
exactly on time,
you sulk in darkened corners,
complaining about the shadows,
as if the loneliness your ego creates
isn't an apocalypse of a different kind.
The intent behind every word I utter
is spun into serpentine silk
in your ears,
so you paint me the snake,
accuse me of hissing,
when all I have done
is refused to speak Jabberwocky.