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She called my art outdated.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 traces of love on my heart and skin still do yearn for your presence...

Three years ago to this very day,
I signed something of my soul away;

But that is love that doesn't last,
And present lives the longing past,
Though nothing of your face remains
In aught I look at, and the pains
Are well-healed scars, and I did best
To put all mementos to rest,
I even ceased to sing your songs,
Then made them my own, for these wrongs;

And still something of your prosody
Remains in my voice's melody.

I'm jealous of everything—
maybe because of how your life just goes by without any traces of me on it, I couldn't even get a chance to say how I love your hair falls perfectly on your face.

maybe, I'm just a moon, without your light, I'm nothing. You're everything like the sun.

I cannot escape memories
Absence haunts all I do
When eyes close your face is what mind sees
Every place I go there are traces of you

On my exploration, there are still secrets
that kept under my  sleeves; it would be a
twisted knife in my defenseless night.

Between the heaven and sea,
there are traces of him, keeping me
haunted and wandering at it.

Between the orbs and galaxies,
we're building towers,
we're praying and pleading for a myriad miracles,
I nestled gently on his lips,
it was all downhill.

I see faces and flowers
on loose pages—
it smiles at me from
a crumpled paper, addressed
to the fire, its embers were
keeping it ablaze.

How happy it was to paint the
room blue in the middle of summer,
dancing through the sound of the creaks
under my footsteps— everything is just right.

How treacherous it was, a wistful memory
they were remnants of unsettled stories
and unforgiven departures; I stood
on a shipwreck
where everything is a lost.
the uncertainty would be tall
and I am more will for the fall,
are these things crosses your mind?
I wouldn't bear crossing out your name.

This is how we paint room blue; creeping
on the cracks of the floor, memorizing your
gaits as I follow your traces.