One hundred years of solitude (sort of a book review)

pdfs. I think we all have a lot of them in our phones. Downloaded; to be ignored forever, never to be opened unless checking to see what it is about or just going through them when we are bored. Which is exactly what I was, lets say, because admitting that I am supposed to be studying 24/7 isn’t easy. Anyway, like any normal person, I looked for an escape and like any normal person, I looked for it in my phone and found this book.

This book is so freaking insane.

When I first scrolled through it, I thought it’s a war story and the main character is this dude named Colonel Aureliano Buendia who is always taking great pains to give us a detailed account of the weather and with some melancholy, talk about every memory that each element of nature in that particular instant brings back to him. You’d think this guy discovered Spain.

This overview didn’t spark joy, honestly, but anyway I started reading it for the sake of reading and forgetting that anything in the world other than it amounts to anything more than mere silent existence. guess what, I love this book so much. 8/10. Perhaps, the fact that I had never read anything like it before (magical realism is my new favorite), made it even more amazing and devote-your-whole-day-to-it-able for me.

My favorite character is probably Ursula. A total boss woman and the only Buendia with actual functional brain cells apart from Jose Arcadio Buendia (the main guy, the first guy, the sitting under the tree guy) who definitely has my respect and whom I would refer to as nothing other than ‘sir’ if I were in Macondo and I would stay as far away as possible from Amarantha.

(Ok I am not even going to talk about Rebecca’s parents’ skeletons lying about in the Buendia house dancing tiredly in their dirty old sack and no one caring about it at all. Its so frustrating like bro please just bury them already) isn’t it very much like how the ghosts of fictional classical dead people might actually invisibly be? Or the strong but silent schemes of the quiet and mysterious characters?

While we are at it, can we talk about how cool is the name Gabriel Garzia Marquez? I wish my name sounded that dope. He lived up to it, though, didn’t he? I would expect nothing less from a Gabriel Garzia Marquez tbh. I remember thinking ‘this guy is nuts’ and at the same time knowing that he is nothing less than a genius.

Sometimes I think about how Remedios the baby grandmother and Remedios the beauty had kind of a similar fate. First of all, they were both too pure for this world and secondly they had to deal an unwelcomed and unwanted attention and sexualization in their own innocent manners. Through them, the author has portrayed what is devastatingly fundamentally wrong with society and it’s attitude towards women.

My guy Melquídias was awesome through and through. He literally knew about every bullshit that this race of Aurelianos and Jose arcadios and Amaranthas would pull in a hundred years and wrote about each and every one of them in Sanskrit and mathematics. Admirable. I bet the Aureliano Segundo part was in stats though. Not to forget Melquìdias cured the town’s insomnia!!! That was something.

The amnesia itself was something. I think it being contagious is one hell of a metaphor.

Intentional forgetfulness leads to total oblivion. We help each other forget things that would have , other wise, lasted longer in its full glory. We take pride in forgetting the past, the languages, the words, the stories and we encourage each other to move on and create new lives and realities. But it wears us down. It tires us. It drains our energy. I suppose it’s because some part of the killed memories remain inside of us , crippled and angry, gnawing weakly at our hearts because there’s nothing much more that they can do. The unnoticeable and negligible feeling of unease passes away in seconds but it has long term damage. We celebrate advancements, intentional or accidental like the people of Macondo thought of the diminished need for rest as a chance to work more, earn more, party more and be better all in all. Then they got bored, they were hopeless and so fucking tired. The gentle weight of memories and the heavy weight of knowledge, everything that made them them was shed from their shoulders and they were left behind wide eyed and clueless. What does that remind you of?

And the rain!

The four years, eleven months and two days of rain in Macondo which started after the banana company killed all it’s workers and fled the area (more ‘realism’ than ‘magical’ tbh)

Úrsula always tried to go a step beyond. Open the windows and the doors, she shouted. Cook some meat and fish,buy the largest turtles around, let strangers come and spread their mats in the corners and urinate in the rose bushes and sit down to eat as many times as they want and belch and rant and muddy everything with their boots, and let them do whatever they want to us, because thats the only way to drive off rain.

Ursula 1:0 Fernanda

Like the Colonel’s routine of making metal goldfishes, the story too, seems like a habit of history. The twins (maybe) exchanging names and forgetting who is who to the twins dying on the same day and their coffins getting mixed up and their gravestones bearing names that they didn’t live their lives with.

That’s not even half of everything I want to say about this book but maybe some other time. Girl has to go to school now. Alrighty.

The god of small things (sort of a book review)

7.5/10

I read this book about two and a half years ago for the first time and I wouldn’t have bought it if it weren’t for this outrageously appealing look of it having been hastily thrown on the dusty floor of an old book store selling second hand books, waiting there patiently and a little angrily to be picked up, put on one of the shelves or on top of one of the piles on the floor at least. I had been looking for some other book that I don’t recall the name of any more.

This is the only work of Arundhati Roy that I have read so far and the score above should tell you that I absolutely loved it. It’s perfect for someone like me; to whom any spoiler is not spoiler enough. She tells us the ending of the book in chapter 1 and I think that’s admirable and really really brave of her but of course she is a great writer and would not, for the love of her life, ruin the mystery or to say “the confusion lay in a deeper, more secret place” .The lack of mysteriousness in the tone of the book makes it so much more intriguing. Roy would just nonchalantly mention things as if we are already supposed to know the whole story. She goes ‘oh yeah so it happens’ and we can’t help but think “no shit but HOW”.

I like how she questions the vulgarity of the love laws that exist(ed) in India where the color of your skin and your profession and your father’s profession and your great great grandfather’s profession decide(d) your worth as a human subject in a capitalist society but most importantly, it decided who you can love and how much. It’s the same with the whole world, to be honest. It’s really something that needs to be talked about more. A lot of our cultural norms are severely racist and misogynistic.

Ammu. When I first read it, I thought Ammu could have avoided all the despair that took over the lives of Rahel and Estha by, well, by not falling in love with someone she wasn’t supposed to look at, let alone be with. Then I realized, that’s the whole point of it, isn’t it? One can’t decide a human being’s value based on the color of their skin and the surname of their ancestors. It’s kind of stupid but after having been disappointed by history many many times, it’s not hard to imagine humans doing stupid stuff anymore.

Human 1 : oh look at that! It’s so stupid!

Human 2: yeah ikr. let’s do the same.

Human 1: eh.. okay.

That a woman that they had already damned, now had little to lose, and could therefore be dangerous.

I suppose a woman who has nothing to lose would be kind of dangerous. Just the thought of a woman who has already faced every painful consequence of every bad decision is so wild, in a way. I guess it’s the same for every other gender. Humans are shackled to the ground because of their loved ones and the inanimate and the abstract things that they hold dear. I wonder if anyone ever runs out of things to lose.

Ammu was disgraced and disowned and lost Velutha to the hate laws but she still had her twins. Her twins, to whom she was both father and mother and whom she loved double.
Despite having been anchored to the world by her children, after Velutha, she was but an Ammu shaped hole in the universe. I wouldn’t call that dangerous. Haunting and heavy on the conscience but not in the least, threatening and scary.

The brown household and it’s great many condemnable traits have been portrayed really well. Mammachi’s weird obsession with her son and her hatred towards his love interests, Pappachis jealous-of-his-wife antics, baby kochamma’s gaslighting parasitic behavior, a divorcee being treated like scum, the american cousin being all the hype and the apple of everyone’s eyes even though she would sooner call them a bunch of idiots than family.

I have no comments about Rahel and Estha’s relationship to be honest except that they seem to me to have been portrayed like soulmates. Brother and sister, who always said “we” and never “I”. I mean soulmates aren’t always some stereotypical heterosexual non-platonic couple, right? Well, I might be wrong but I’m pretty sure I’m not.

This novel might be called depressing and too sad in some circles but it’s just common everyday stories of every other house. Stealthy slavery. In many households (especially in joint family systems) still, there is a kind of an absurd power struggle amongst the absurd number of people who think they are in charge of everyone else’s life and more importantly, finances. Hiding behinds the many excuses of the family’s honor and shameless emotional blackmailing, little mischievous villains ruin more than they would ever think themselves capable of ruining.

“And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like these, only the Small Things are ever said. Big Things lurk unsaid inside.”

This master piece won the booker prize in 1997. This book is so important and filled with an emotion so raw and genuine that one can’t help but feel both dumbstruck and aggrieved. I love how the story is structured. It is as if Roy blended her skills as an Architect and as a writer to create a very unique way of story telling.

The maybe alive cats

The world was silent except for two voices. One was mine and the other one was mine too. But the world is never silent, is it? It is in fact too loud and clamorous all the time. Could this too be a myth and another random half-assed but fully believed fact? It does seem so at dawn when the birds are having their last dreams for the night and I have more to say and when I am frantically and eagerly trying to tell God how much I love everything.

The silent hour has more to say than possibly any other hour of the day. It is truly a miracle how one certain shade of blue on the sky of the limits of our eyes can be of such a wonderful event to our hearts, a little revolution every twenty four hours, limited time offer, catch it in the 20 minutes of it’s existence or keep on dying on the inside with not a speck of golden brown relief in the blinding red canvas of your life. Time is amazing. I can never not think of that one Sci-Fi film, Lucy, in which they say that time is the only dimension and we exist in a tiny portion of it (obviously) and that if time ran a bit faster (enough to cover our life span in a nanosecond or even more of a negligible period), we won’t even exist.

That makes me think of how if some kind of a glitch happens in the universe right after I post this and time jumps 50 years ahead (give or take) and I cease to physically exist (above ground ,at least), what will become of this post? I guess that depends on how long WordPress survives or if someone copies it down to some other website or some magazine or a piece of paper or a memory or anything that holds art and literature and other attempts at knowledge, it would survive as long as they do even after I’m dead and the microbes have had many many feasts in my head. Like classic literature and the mural paintings, the scratched words on a tree and the permanent footprints on a cement side walk.

The duality paradox lives in my head rent free. I can’t help but think of everything in those terms on some level. Is the true nature of light particle or is it energy? Many people never presented these arguments before Einstein did because the dual nature of light was nothing peculiar to them. They must have always had believed in the soul of the universe (yep its a reference to the alchemist by Paulo Coehlo. read it.). It’s not a new concept. I bet humans knew from the beginning that we are body and soul not body or soul. (As long as we are alive, at least). It’s ridiculous how scientists got so confused over it and carried out so many diffraction and interference experiments and not to mention, put an imaginary cat in an imaginary box for it. Science is astonishing.

Do we exist outside of our time or not? Would the particle nature of light have a shorter life span than the wave nature? Do photons ever die? Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, first rule of thermodynamics, something of the thing lives on. Maybe, time has nothing on us.

One thing that really hit me while watching “Interstellar” was when Brand says that she still loves Edmund even though he is on a different planet so very far away from where they were that travelling there alone could make them lose hundreds of years on Earth and then she goes you know what “love is the only truly perfect dimension” or something along the lines. It made sense because space and time are painfully limited but things manage to exist and even thrive beyond the four obvious dimensions. There must be something that anchors them to existence; that convinces the future of its right to being. I hope that something that keeps me alive is something beautiful.

Maybe, just maybe, love is the greater, more reliable dimension. More valuable than time. It must be more intricate, more widespread but less confusing and less delicate than time. I sometimes think that time had to take the L just because it’s so confusing. (We did lose our minds watching ‘Dark’).
So Schrodinger’s cat was more alive than it was dead. Shakespeare and Sappho are alive. My great-grandmother who I never met but heard about in so many of my mother’s stories is alive. Dante and Dali are alive. We’re all alive and that was one of the many things that I was and am grateful for.

The birds that were dreaming their last dreams for the night woke up and I had to hand over the sacred duty of marvelling at the universe to them as I went downstairs to have some tea.

she told me

that one day I’ll know what she went through. She wouldn’t tell me but I’ll know. She won’t write it down or speak of it to anyone but I will know. She won’t hide it in a poem or leave behind a secret keeper but I’ll know. I can’t doubt it. The universe has strange ways of wrapping shows up even if it takes one hundred years to do so so I will know even if I don’t live to be a hundred years old. That’s because I already know and, probably, I am subconsciously feigning ignorance because once I know I can’t un-know it, unsee it. It will over shadow all the falsely cheerful realities of life and take into it’s arms all my hopes and dreams of a better world and hide it away for some other world.

She told me that I’m being too clingy. To life. That it will slip away like a ballet dancer and jump into someone else’s arms to keep the act going and that I am dumb for having hoped for more. She told me that after all that she saw here, she doesn’t find herself obliged to remember anything at all. Tit for tat, she said. It won’t remember me and I won’t remember it. She told me that she will start her new life like she started like one; like a baby with a broken maze for memories, no language, no sign of culture or traditions, no recognition of the sky or the daisies and sunflowers or the stars that she loved so much. She told me that it will be okay that way.

And of all the mad things she told me, one was that she hoped that I will be loved like she never was; that I won’t grow to hate myself with the surety and conviction with which she hated herself. She said that I look like her. But that’s okay and so does the mirror and the shadow of her mother. And that’s okay, she said.

“you will hear them say things you would never want them to say and act the way you couldn’t bear to think that they ever would and that’s okay too”, she told me and then looked so wistfully out of the window that I guessed that it’s not really okay but what can one say? She told me that her life went up and vanished like cigarette smoke in a joyless twirling and she looked happy enough while saying it as if her own life had served to be of some aesthetic value to the world.

She told me that she isn’t greedy but would begrudge me that sweet pain in her chest; that no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to feel what she felt ; “no matter how badly you fall from your makeshift castle in the anchored artificial skies, I won’t share with you the only thing I’m allowed to carry with me to the world beyond the world”, she said. I didn’t know why she was being so pompous. It’s not like I fancied having some sort of a pain in my chest. But she knew what she was saying. Medals, souvenirs and evidences.

She told me to move on and stand on my feet like the ghost of myself. Carry on, be the utter nuisance that I wished had disturbed my dark tangled thoughts and set them in some sort of a queue, at least, if not a perspective.

Why did her hands dissolve into mine when she held them up the cheeks and cried into the palms of a stranger that I was to her? It is as if she was breaking her own promise of betraying whoever betrayed her. I was too dumbfounded to raise these questions, not even when she smiled her sad smile and hid her face behind her dirty gray veil and left, maybe, for another one to tell her regrets to.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (sort of a book review)

7.8/10

No one:

Definitely not Sibyl Vane

Not even Lord Henry

Dorian Gray: anyways so what if Hallward is a cake?

Now this book is a master piece. Oscar Wilde has truly eaten every writer up with this one. I can almost picture him with a smug smile and sad eyes on his throne somewhere in the afterworld or downworld (in case he is a vampire). I can understand why this book is a dark academia favorite.

The metaphors in it are insane. The whole theme is insane, to begin with. I’d list all the metaphors but I am afraid I didn’t get half of them. (will reread at some point). I think that every other line was an epiphany that Mr. Wilde decided to throw at us. Consider this

Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own
soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly,—that is what each of us is here for.

And this

There was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance.

And

We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography.

And many many more that make you take a deep breath and smile to yourself then silently curse because what the heck was that?

So Dorian is this disgustingly rich dude with an angelic face (same old white boy charms tbh) golden hair, blue eyes, pink lips, whatnot and everyone who has ever seen him believes that he is an angel amongst men. On top of it all, his innocence is noticable and praised left right and center. Later on in the book, when he is slightly older, everyone thinks that he is that bitch for sure but also not shit. He still looks like a Greek god but his mind is in the gutter; is what the general public opinion is.

So in the prime of their youth, his friend Basil Hallward paints a picture of him. This very picture makes Dorian realize that he is hot. (I blame that on Harry of course). And Dorian totally loses it and becomes jealous of his own picture for remaining young forever and ever and ever. Youth is the biggest happiness and aging is dumb; or so dude thought. Let’s talk about Harry now. He is mood, for starters. Secondly, Wilde used Harry to unleash his philosophy of literally anything and everything on our already deliciously over burdened brains. Thirdly, Harry needs to chill. Basil said he is a bad influence and we trust Basil, as the owner of the only brain cell in the book, to tell the truth. I mean look at what he brought Gray to but honestly, Gray would have walked himself there too (Ok so I knew for real that he isn’t right in the head by the way he was simping for Sibyl)

Our boy Dorian is always the talk of the town of course and God knows what awful agendas he used to have in the London of that time because he was infamous. He doesn’t age a day. Nor does sin write itself across his face but guess what happens to the painting? Guess what happens to the painting ??

Well well well I shouldn’t just spoil the whole book like this. So take my world for it. It’s crazy good.

It’s one of those books that I really regret having read from a screen. It deserves to be held and put themed bookmarks in, put on a shelf and given admiring looks to now and then.

The subtle art of stopping yourself from writing a love letter

Been there and done that. Haven’t you? Oh come on ! Be honest. Aren’t you a kid? (I bet you are here because I shared a link that brought you here and only partially of your own accord) so yes, I CAN bet that you are, indeed, a kid. I haven’t befriended the elderly yet. But if you are here through some sort of a miracle and not because I dragged you here, and even if you are as old as Forty (40) or i regret to say this but older (*insert confused shrieking sounds*), then, well, you are still a kid. Do not worry.

So kids, I am going to make a wild guess and assume that you have wanted to write a love letter at least once in your life. How was that? And why didn’t you? made a sad spectacle of yourself,didn’t you? In your own eyes at least. Sometimes, I just want to write everyone a love letter; telling them how beautiful they are and how during a random hour of a random day, I remembered a random thing they said and it made me smile. (Much to my mumma’s annoyance). Is everyone not in love with everyone? I think we should be! But then again, I’m a little whack in the head. My thoughts refuse to be rational when death roams the city I call home and the city I was born in. So many loved ones have a dear one suffering at the hands of something they can do little to save them from and the worst of it all is that everyone is on their own. I only wish that they were receiving some hand written letters in an ink the faintest of pink.

I was watching the stars the other night. They were so pretty. So shiny. So delicate. So real. I realized that they are so easy to look at. Your eyes do not get tired of star gazing. And the stars don’t get tired of your loser heart yearning aimlessly but harmlessly and finding sad metaphors in them. The stars don’t get tired of you trying to find your beloved in their gentle light. Life is a love story. A great big house of reflections and parodies. You are like me (probably a little less broke, a little more loveable). We do want an end to our tragic loneliness.

Which reminds me of this meme, actually.

Anyhow, at some point, some ridiculous human being decided that we can’t write love letters whenever we want to whomsoever we want and ladies and gentlemen, I, hereby, telepathically denounce that boring idiot. But then I think of how if we could just talk openly ( yes, I am talking about the biggest losers that ever walked, poets.) , We wouldn’t hide behind the many meanings of a well phrased line. And honestly, poetry isn’t that bad so I guess we had to be a little secretive about love to find beauty in it (ok simp) but we don’t know for sure, right? Maybe honesty would have been more beautiful. We’re a little late for reality. It has been all washed down, varnished and undergone multiple plastic surgeries. but hey, we are right on time for experimentation, innovation and reinvention.(you go, Gen Z!)

I know you learned it. Unlearn it. The subtle art of being a cold hearted bitch. Unlearn it. Be honest. Talk to your parents. Tell them in clear unambiguous words that you love them. They know you do but say it all the same. They are not perfect, I know. You aren’t perfect either. We’re all doing the best that we can. Talk to your friends. Tell them to send you sad songs. Tell them how life would have been so dull without them. It would not have been yellow enough, or blue enough or green enough or pink enough.

I guess before we enter the cruel world of economy and become the victim of material pursuit, we must enjoy these times of complete oblivion or the life of a UV sensitive plant sitting behind some electrochromic glass. All we have to do is to not be an asshole. And bam! Life’s good. You have to be selfish enough to be selfless and give people the benefit of the doubt; think them worthy of your love. Don’t let hate take any place in your heart. It’s not worth it. Forgive yourself and everyone for not being good enough. It’s far too late for us to sulk about it now. Time is running so fast and that too in a well practiced stealth that you can’t tell when it started and when it ended because it didn’t seem to go fast enough.

Trade of dread

Hellbent, modified
Never were we
so vilified.
Lost in your head
Thinking about that
Crucified love we dread.
Alas, we will lose
Again this time.


I wish it hadn’t come to this.

I don’t want to know what a sailor might think when he finds out there’s no saving the boat now. The storm has eaten up it’s life force. More often than not, we find ourselves clutching at thin air, hoping against hope; but maybe if we didn’t, we would have been dead and gone a long time ago.
It is an awful poem. It’s far from being balanced. But hey, so is everything else. Come to think of it, out of all the inconvenient wrinkles in the space- time of my existence, my favorite would have been a miracle. Inconvenient because I wouldn’t have expected it but nevertheless, it would have been more than welcome.
Though I know not a lot of people will read this but I want you to know and understand that if you are capable of hurting some one , just don’t.
I’ve seen too many monsters and not enough heroes and its probably because the heroism would be in a collective effort. Everyone! Be kind.

The Kite Runner (sort of a book review)

Personal rating : 7/10

I read it back in 2017 when I had just started college and it was a whole new world with it’s ruthless competitive nature. This book brought me back to me from the cultural shock that I had just received. Here, read a book. Be you.

Besides that , one more thing that makes this book really special is the fact that it has a fragment of past that doesn’t matter to most readers but nevertheless is important to me in so many ways.
You might think it’s odd how I am writing this in 2020, three years after reading it. Well, what can I say? Somethings stick with you. Some books you just don’t forget and move on from. Some books do leave an impact. Moreover, I just finished rereading it.
( Definitely not because being at home has taught me a thing or two).
Hosseini is a phenomenal story teller. A thousand splendid sun’s and And the mountains echoed are both fine examples of it. But with The Kite Runner, he ate it.
Absolutely ate it.
If that’s the case then why not 10/10, right?
Well, for starters I am almost never satisfied with how a story ends. It’s no different for the kite runner. It’s ending , even though it was happy, was in fact kind of cringe worthy. (I do hope Hosseini never reads this).
Nevertheless, I should not complain! Why should the world of fiction match the plain realities of life? If the ending is unbelievable and unrealistic then so be it.
But if there is something about the characters that you find so awfully relatable then it is , I confess, hard to get over such a brutal assassination of their whole character arch.
There you have a kid, belonging to a race so looked down  upon and discriminated against, son of a father who pretends to be his master, sexually harassed, physically abused, alone but true to his word , kind hearted and grateful. If any one deserved a forced happy ending, it was him, Hassan. But I guess we had to make it look realistic.
Then we have his friend who lived in the big house and read such awesome books , owned pretty cool watches and was a son of a father who wanted the best for him. His repentance arch was impressive. Amir is a protagonist in the true sense of it.
I thought about Hassan’s dream, the one about us swimming in the lake. There is no monster, he’d said, just water. Except he’d been wrong about that. There was a monster in the lake. It had grabbed Hassan by the ankles, dragged him to the murky bottom. I was the monster
Why did he have to make it, though?
Who knows why in all of his stories the sad remains sad and gets sadder for a change. ( reference to Maryam from A thousand splendid sun’s)
Well that’s about all the personal reasons I had for the -3.
Now let’s come to the bright side. The 7!
The kite runner , like the rest of Hosseini’s books, paints a picture of Afghanistan from before and during the dark times it faced and is still facing. These books are important to so many people. It has their stories in it. Their pasts. And a lot of these stories are beautiful. Amongst the river of English words in the book they find some random Farsi, Dari and Pashto words that, I bet, must be heart warming.
This is one of the stories that keep you on your tippy toes; that you just can not stop reading, when every
last line of the page urges you to turn the page and read some more. And eventhough the misery of the story gnaws at your heart, brings tears to your eyes (literally),you are compelled to love it all the way.
Such a piece of priceless art. A story of love, friendship, brotherhood. A story of racism, terrorism, fate and privilege.

The planet of mysteries.

Is the blue sky even blue?

You must have wondered as a child.

Whatever you start with a plan,

Goes to absolute chaos.

Is it fair that we don’t know,

The outcome of it all;

The mystery of it all.

Is it fair that we don’t see,

The future all ours;

Or the future not there.

Is it fair that we still hope and dream;

Of things in the holds of fate

Of things we might not have.

Is it fair Oh is it fair?

Blindness to the future isn’t kind

So Pope was wrong

Anticipation a curse and worry a loss

Whats kind about it? I don’t know.

……….

I am at the point in life when a very important decision is to be made. A round table is set up and around it are seated fate, luck, my parents, myself, finance and distance.

You would think that an important decision concerning my future would be like a UN decision. Someone ( me , of course ) would have the veto power. Haha. Life is not always like that kids. There are deciding factors. Despite having the veto, the decision will be mine and not mine at the same time.

Time splits. You know how they say that every time a crossroad appears in your life , the universe splits and alternate realities are created. Its a theory so far as I know.

#mystery #life #dejavu #love #decision #crossroads #poems

Don’t we all at some point just want a private conversation with God so that He can tell us what the hell we are doing wrong ? Its like we never know why we are the way that we are. There has to be a solid argument regarding my situation in this confusing circle of disappointment we call life.