Lies we Tell

This life, or a beautiful lie in each preposterous act—those that they see as morality and if there is anything left here, dust of lies such convincing.

It is a lie, everything and everyone and our hearts are never meant to be loved—for all that love is supposed to be. Seated here beside the depressed widow—undressed bride who waits for her lover but what is left of it, that is—hate songs which have been universally publicized. Every garden is in merry and the imposters have never been happier.

I always wander around the pathetic wishes of a tree and the casual shadows that want me gone each second. And the wolves are waiting for me at the end of the restless street—as if Sunday would never touch us again. I’m trying hard to tell me—songs that will get better and the wives who would become faithful. Those that never loved, and wealth is their gemstone of salvation each starving minute.

I want to tell me, how can I convince me that I’m an alien? The warmth inside my own bed-sheet and the royal attire inside my heart, those that want me assassinated. “Everything is going to be alright,” the biggest lie these vases always whisper and I’m tired of it. We walk ahead, trying to take over the world but do we realize that each day is nothing but a mis-construct of the same day thrice.

I want to stop, but stop for what—and here we are attending the wedding of the last atheist left here. People label you as promiscuously insane and the ringing of the rhetoric rumors never stop. “Go to school, get a good education and a good paying job,”—is what we are compelled to believe in each second. But the truth, of all that no one ever whispers—it does not matter or what is, why is there so much hunger and starvation if one has the resources to prevent it?

Yesterday I told me that it was alright—but it was a lie and I know why I did that. The same reason why Juliet no longer undresses herself infront of every guy she meets. And time, that brutal lie no one to spare, tonight we are getting lost in paradise and tomorrow will never be.

If you happen to wake up beside me, do give my journals to someone who would understand. It’s been tough, overwhelming grief and chilling drums filled with rushing desires. O high---those low tides that sweep everything away and the paintings on her skin. Some say it’s a bird but it’s a lie—all she wanted was to fly but not like this- in death and each love making attire that she has with her lover, sticking out of her heart like no one ever cared.

Look at the person next to you and know that everything you know about her is all a beautiful lie. No one is happy and happiness is nothing but a fancy word used by the elite who think they own everything. Desperation, unmet desires and crystals from heaven, summer is so uninteresting and so is winter. And in the end—it was all a bold and a pretty lie.

-Yogesh Chandra