My poems, novels, and original music might be discovered by some alien civilization 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 judging?

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 be 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 have 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 are happy presuming 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 next day onwards. It's not like her work kept her busy. She had all the 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She called my art outdated.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 to help me establish a roadside candy stall because they thought (or rather hoped) that I may never get back to 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 the human society. For more than 15 years, I've been experiencing such ignorance. They didn't read even the novels I gifted to them, the thankless people.

I'm sorry to say, the society has disappointed me. They refused to give me an opportunity to prove that my worth is beyond the physical limitations 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 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.

Peace is something to die for
To dive for
Deep into uncomfortable waters where confrontations swim quickly with sharp teeth of yesteryears hurts, scars and disappointments
To wrestle against the currents of emotional immaturity and pride in the deep and dark abyss of normalcy.

Hiding hurt in plain sight, veiled, covered up like dirt under the carpet so that no one can see the harm that has been done but never reconciled.
The narcissist within you thinks you know the reason behind everything you see or feel, you’ve already figured out a story where you’re justified and as for me, you say I should let it go.
Life is too short to relive old pain.

Your peace is a false god.
Your peace has won no battles , your peace has no scars , your peace is nothing but a curtain that hides the ugliness of human condition that you are not emotionally mature enough to process.
Your peace is the absence of conflict.
My peace is its resolve.
To stitch the wound
To mend the heart
To soothe the soul
Again, to start
Anew, with you to know you deeply,
To love you deeply.
If life is so short, then why are we waiting
To start again

naive as a dog,
I opened my heart to my God

my heart was broken, so i inverted reality,
didn't want to die yet, wanted to be good enough for her.

i dreamed in the hive of the sweet nectar of unconditional love

instead coldness dove into this heart, had to throw away that probability.
my blinds could see how fearfully we worshiped her.

no more hope, we abandoned self care.
my safest space became fantasy.
**** was ecstasy,
where this addict could dare.

don't mean to blame my bully for my choices
but something had to be done about the emotional taxing

wouldn't hold her horses,
so we validated her darkness through our habits.
now safer from the devil's approaching,
distance, a decade without her soul poaching.
now free from her torment, i frolic with the rabbits.

success I have created for myself,
free from the inner critic personified as herself,

I transform my pain into art.
I dug out everything that was in my heart.
I now know I really exist,
in this new love bubble FINALLY nothing to fix.

from wholme, i sadly understand my first bully.
mother wasn't taught less than being unruly.
i feel her drowning in her demons truly,
all she could do is clench onto my radiance poorly.

in my own castle panting, still my heart beats for her newly.

She who is afraid of sharp things
Who's afraid of needle
Who's afraid of being physically hurt
Who's afraid of getting cuts
Who cries on the smallest invisible cut
Who tries to protect herself from getting hurt
Who can't stand blood
Who's afraid of dying
Who wants to live
Who wants to explore
Who wants to be lively
Who wants to be happy
Who finds happiness in the smallest things
Is now c*tting herself
Just to know that she's alive
Just to know she isn't dead
Just to feel relieved
Just to escape her life
Just to bleed all the pain out

I Put a hand behind my head
Pull myself up
By the collar of a shirt
                       That doesn’t fit
Throw myself against a wall
Breaking parts inside
That were reassembled
                                    In haste
Gathered
From remnants designed
                                   For two

I circle a bed in canine fashion
Tread it for comfort
                         Sleep elsewhere
All is a loop
A bowl retaining a fish
A halo worn by a sinner
A voicemail
                   That’s undeletable

I never knew touching like that was a thing
It felt disgusting
It still does
I still remember it way too clearly
I was 5
It still haunts the f**k out of me
Never had the courage to tell anyone abt it
But I can still feel his hands on me
Touching me
But I couldn't do anything
I was helpless
still am
Didn't know anything abt it
Didn't know how to react
After all this I live in the same house
Acting like i don't remember it
While I feel his hand all over me every  second

it’s absurd,
you keep breaking—

deep down,
you’re tired
of it all.

sick of it.
sick of
the fall.

“traumas,”
you keep sayin’—
“i’m over it,
i’m okay.”

but all you’ve done
is what you had
to do:

survive.

and now you live
with words
you can’t take back.

it’s wasting
your time,
your energy.

the only one left
is you—
and you’re not okay.

nobody hurts you
worse than
you do.

so why
keep this up?

take a breath.
open your eyes.

everything
will fall in place—

this time.

I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.