They are some cute little kids playing with crayons.
And they can paint you however they want.
You hurt them a little and they will tell everyone in this world.
They aren’t heroic.
They do it because they are weak.
They write because they are not strong enough to surpass reality.
They write because they are not strong enough to kill themselves or others.
They write because they can’t scream,can’t cry.
They write because they are hurting.
They are jilted lovers,
Desperately looking for someone to share their pain.
The pain of being born.
I too was a happy child until I was jolted with their perfectly crafted words.
How innocently I believed the world to be a perfectly beautiful place,
Until they came and exposed its ugliness.
They disrupted everything I ever believed in.
My rules, my religion,
My notion of ‘perfect love’.
They glorified rebellion, defiance, madness and insanity.
They never made sense.
But I always trusted them.
Because they knew exactly where it hurt.
I asked them,
If you had to come to rescue,
Why didn’t you come early?
Where were you,
When this society was poisoning me with fairytales?
But they did not pay any heed
And burnt my dreamworld to ashes.
They made me unlearn all that I was ever taught.
They were venomous.
They raised doubts in my mind.
They made me question everything.
They made me defy rules.
And for the first time in my life,
I refused to obey.
I learnt to disobey.
They made me a sinner.
They made me feel.
Those feelings tasted like blood in my mouth.
They plagued me and made me one of their kind.
They bruised me with reality.
And told me this:
“It will hurt as hell.
Either you die,
Or you become a writer.
Either you cut,
Or you learn to substitute blood with ink.”
I was aching
And the only way to reduce the pain was to pass it..
So I became one of them,
Bathed in red,
I started making others bleed too.
They carried a puzzle
And I was a part of it.
And now they are using me to find the others.
You might be the next part.