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She called my art outdated.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.

Everyone started to feel like they came back to life now.
Everyone begs for a kiss
Everyone begs for more time
While I wanted to burn inside.

And all the girls have their heads in their lost dreams.
I want to be ****** not to get involved.
They have forgotten how love hurts.
It seems they are not afraid of the smell of love.
I do not want to inhale the scent, the last time I did it completely destroyed me.

I'm going to smoke cigarettes.
I'm going to shake my head.
I put the red lipstick on.
I will drink .
I'll get the best outfit.
I dance the love songs.

But I will not talk about emotions here.
Because it seems like everyone wants to romanticize broken hearts.

Dreamers like his strong scent.
But it is not the smell of broken hearts, it is not the smell of summer on our skin, it is not the smell of flowers springing in the spring, nor of innocence.
It's the smell of love.
Love is in the air
In the land of cold hearts.
In a place of empty hearts and vibrations of misunderstood beings.
The smell of love still seems to be in the air.
It spreads as fast as if it were disease.
So I'm going to get ****** so I do not get it.
It spreads so fast and gives false euphoria.
In the end, it disappears.
We were disappointed after that.

We with unhealed wounds can not be involved in this communion of dreams and fantasies.

For some love is the only reason they exist.

Everyone seems poisoned by love.
 Because it will satisfy their unreal needs ...
But knowing that it toxic and disappointment is unlimited.
And when the pain comes , nobody wants to get involved.

Do not use drugs .
Do not use love.

It seems to be metaphor for little poetry.
But it is the nostalogy of love not understood.

I saw the sun steep
into the seascape ―
lonely as a drowning
    wave
         on still-waters

the dimming of the day
rescinding evanescent daylight                                                         ­         .
fading with the slack tide
         lost at sea ―
a gloaming moment
         let fall from
the remains of the day,
like some other passing
sea bird's molted feather
drifts away untamed

I sit silent as the driftwood
lingering at the watermark,
watching a random gust
    erase the footprints
of another recurring day, 
bearing abandoned memories
    and vacant heartbeats,
atrophied in the drifting sands

    and I see you walking
    towards the abating  
    midnight sunset ―
         but I know
    you're just a mirage;    
like the dimming afterglow
of so many waning moons
            elapsed
         
ever-changing tides grow low  
and promises made lightly  
         do ebb away
          
Scanning the distant horizon ―    
    a blindfold heart    
    mooning all at sea;
parsing a deserted shoreline,
    wondering if love
          is too late ,..
    to stem the tide ―


        harlon rivers

      30   May   2018

Ever listened to song,
Or sound.
Once liked.
Now festered with new meaning.

Tendrils snaking to your heart,
A piece of the world you no longer wish feel.

Yet it hurts to turn away.
To turn away from the truth.
Behind the song:
A real piece of this world,
You can no longer touch.

A fantom limb,
A cursed itch.
Across your heart,
A deep unhealed cut

You can hold a pebble
in the palm of your hand.
But when it's been pummeled
and turned to sand,
no matter how tight
you clench your fingers together
it'll slip through your hands.
Oh how the damaged ones slip through time.
Forgotten n spread across shore lines. Where different waves reach their lips only be pulled away before they reach,

Untouched n unfaze they become apart of the maze.
Left,
Right,
Up or
Down,
It's such a confusing haze. Her walls are high n you'll never find the center place.