The senses of the world fail to capture my jarring thoughts, let alone echo my wrath, as I write this epistolary note to you. The dawns were upon us, yet they made us meek. Remember, I urged the dark lords to uncage me from the hemming and hawing of my mother-in-law, Shrillpet. It’s all in vain.

As the full moon shadows my heart, I sing its praises unlike mournful mornings. But the night is not near, and I wish to quench my thirst. Red is my need; the wine never satisfies me, but the crimson water in sheer thickness transports me to a world of ecstasy. It is my elixir.

Can you fill my chalice to the brim? I await your outpour in desperation.

Yours only,
Angrilia

My dear Angrilia,

Your epistle reached me upon dusk. In all sombreness, I fathom your midnight cravings. Since we both share a penchant for melancholy, it did not surprise me that the full moon dawned on you, unlike miserable mornings. Aren’t mornings uneventful?

However, my yearning for a cup full of crimson water of the flesh has turned into an odyssey. I quell the clamour of my heart with hope.

I am laying my pen on the desk as I have nothing more to share with you except offering you a memory from our past when you shimmered in the red-and-black gown with a billowing plume on your hat, and how you touched a goblet of pure blood to your lips, and your visceral fangs enamoured my being. You then laid your eyes on my thick brows, and, in unison, we uttered, ‘Red is my need.’

I hope this aids your senses against Shrillpet’s doggerels.

Dark be thy glory, my Angrilia!

Yours,
Gloometon

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I write to you in the spirit of revelry today. I am in fine fettle, and I hope you are in the pink of health too. I happened to witness vivid expressions of existence in the last few months, the ones that filled me to the brim with joy. These events have captured my attention for long, and I’m least startled to think of them as an extension of what we call living a life.

This epistle of mine is to honor your quest in finding what unleashes magic within you. I was in raptures when I saw an Instagram reel of a middle-aged man like me treating himself like a prince. Do we deserve otherwise?

Some of you have been holding the fort like a true knight who is navigating the troubled waters of this uncertain job market with unmatched resilience. Your charm is addictive, if anyone has to tell you that. I still affirm there resides poetry in each one of you. However, our Achilles’ heel is, perhaps, not believing more in ourselves. With that thought, my rancour finally left me… and in silence.

Many of you are accomplishing milestones regularly because you believe you are worth your salt. Be it guitar, cooking, dancing, or pottery, life is touching you endearingly, it seems. To that conquest, my admiration for you compounds as I gather you no longer experience dubiousness, and that comes from avoiding devious characters in life. Doesn’t it?

I did look past my sombreness and tried to find an unclaimed moment of ecstasy. How flowery that may sound to you! I’m nearing forty, and I can still run from the markings of my life, even when the ink of destiny is deep. I hope you collect your thoughts as I tumble a bit, sharing my dilemma with you.

The very existence of a modern human is to secure a job. The corollary attached is the loss of identity. I hope you’re not reading my sentiments differently. Yesterday, I proffered my resignation from the corporate world to my dear father. To him, my resignation seemed ghastly. But I was not in two minds—and that, to me, is an accomplishment in itself. This selfish sin or deed is worth exploring, or rather conquering, than meeting with frugal standards of hardship—most of which is melancholic in nature.

I happen to grip the seam of my blazer as I wash away the coat from my destiny. I feel unmasked now. Better, perhaps. It seems my mental gauntlet has come to a halt, for the best. I discovered lately that my gifts lie elsewhere.

As I continue to conquer this path further, my gait is no more laddish. I do not ask any trouble of you by joining me. I would rather lead the way and bear it all myself.

For you, I leave a treasure trove of good wishes, and I hope you continue to walk the path of your choosing. To commemorate this fateful occurrence, may I request you to halt and relish a meal, for it could be a long walk to freedom.

Bon appétit!

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Look, I discovered you… lately.
I have you. You have me.
Please, don’t tease.

Life tried to nerf me, but I was deft.
I shone in dreams.
Now reality haunts me.
Or perhaps, it calls me.

Can you tell me my suitor?
Is it a book, a playground, or a cubicle?
Is it a chessboard?

A cookbook, perhaps?
A stylistic dorm, maybe?
What is it?
But it is.

A million stars gaze across the sky.
Yet my spirit has drifted.
And then I ask myself—
Am I not gifted?

Now give me what’s mine.
Potential… not purpose.
Sit no more on my credit,
for you shall have no debit.

A sign, a hint, a gesture.
The universe knows I am a Casper.
Come tonite—I’m awake.

I rest here.
Fill me now with nothing but my potential.
For you, is it not a piece of cake?

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All this while Ilia was creating verbal ruckus everywhere that he would win. He even celebrated his victory party before his match. And he lost. But the fact is he kept moving through trainings, giving his best; and so did his opponent, Justin Gaethje.

Simultaneously, Indian fans are pulling all-nighters just to watch amazing FIFA World Cup matches. It seems like everybody is burning the midnight oil to achieve their goals, dreams, and aspirations. I am simply watching them move… online.

These two important sporting events brought me a realisation that I am numb to the scene of scoring. Where’s my engagement with life? My reach with passion appears blurry. Or, am I simply living? Do I have fire for things?

It’s like resting in a rut. Living in some kind of mental spiral where you realise that you had been day dreaming and not moving much for anything except finishing meals of the day. The best I can do is stock up my drawer for late-night FIFA matches. Is that all there is to it?

You appreciate your solitude, but you also feel the need to enjoy company of likeminded humans—in person. But the macadamized street is all you can see, and you wait till it’s constructed. You are moving in thoughts, perhaps. I am moving in thoughts, perhaps.

I don’t know if it’s the social media pressure that makes us latch onto doing things like grabbing coffee or cleaning home or training for your next match or meeting a friend. Or, is it your volcanic mind indicating to burst but the lava has no designated space for itself.

It’s like everybody is on something, onto something, for something. They seem like walking, both in rest and recreation. This post solves no purpose and achieves no feat, but it made me move a little metaphorically. But it’s still numb out there. Cacophonous silence.

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I have no job, no wealth, no car, no motorcycle, no bicycle, no talent, no friends, no mother, a stubborn father, and a mobile phone that freezes. I’m unmarried, living in a rented house, and living off my brother’s alms, with no emotional support and only two pairs of torn clothes with holes in them. I have gained weight and have faced hundreds of rejections, several life failures, a lack of ambition, and loads of chronic diseases.

I bounce back every other day; otherwise, the world will declare me dead. We do live in a society, no matter how much we try to deny it. I belong to the lower-middle class. We are tenants. We shift homes almost every year with too much household stuff. Always on a shoestring budget. Another day, another dollar.

Sometimes, I see no road, no future. I feel lonely. This is all because I chose the road less travelled (thanks to Robert Frost). For years, it was all about bed rotting and living in a mental rut. As a writer, I live in my head most of the time.

I try to start afresh and fail miserably. I fail, fail, fail, and fail. I get brutally turned down by people, humans, organisations, situations, and circumstances regularly. But this has made me resilient and humorous. I have become extremely self-aware, and that’s why, perhaps, nothing touches me deeply anymore. Blasé it is!

But still, I think highly of myself while carrying low self-esteem simultaneously. If we don’t believe in ourselves and love our being, then who will? That’s why I ordered a cake for myself with borrowed money. At 38, nobody cares.

Then I realise I have freaking big dreams that scare me sometimes. I carry potential. I wonder why I have these frightening dreams and aspirations that may demand too much from me. But I have a dream, just like Martin Luther King Jr.

All this is not complaining, nor is it victimisation of self, narcissism, vanity, self-praise, glorification of sadness, self-deprecating humor, or self-love. An expression of self, perhaps.

This is what I live every day. Simply put, I’m in the middle of things. So, this is my birthday, and it feels special—even if it’s not. Survival mechanism attached.

My thoughts have consumed me to a point where I find it suitable to discuss my literary pursuits with you. I must admit that you have had an impression on my mind ever since I discovered your presence, and this epistle is an extension of my expression to make you aware that I do not discount your contributions but regard them.

I gather that you enjoy my company, and the feeling remains mutual. My notes have continuously amused you, contrary to my posts, which run on cyclic sombreness. But with my languorous gait, I plan to checkmate you, even while moving like a pawn in a game of chess. Well, that, to my mind, is dry humour, and one needs a regular potion to survive.

You are people with aspirations. Your striking thoughts influenced my perception about owning a literary voice. In a world shaken by the power of the pen, literally, the mightier sword has no say when it comes to uniting tribes. You are an example of that testament. Each one of you is a juggernaut in your capacity, and your words inspire my words.

However, I take umbrage to voices that are certainly not of my interest. I find them rather repellent to my taste. I have felt chagrined lately and decided to return the favour with nosegays; sophistication remains an underrated virtue. I wear a garb of conscience deliberately.

We may behest some people with aversion but, if I may add, we do so to continue living in jocular presence—and that is the ultimate revenge against fragility. I had a bone to pick with many people on the platform, but silence never fails to answer. They impute their digression to their intellectual loneliness. One can prance but not too far. I leave it to that.

During a rather short tenure at Substack, I have had my moments of weakness followed by long stays of euphoria. My obstinate approach to ignoring my meekish thoughts made me stretch so far. Now that you have followed me to this juncture, I insist you caper and gambol with me a little farther.

You must know I do not take your august company for granted. Rather, it feels like being crowned with a shining plume on the head. I did scruple in the beginning, in my admission, but we broke the ice sooner than expected.

Today, I write this with no intention to tire you with a day of gloom. But a literary seed is taking root within me, and you have instilled and watered it. You have become a silent partner indeed.

I leave this here and now with abrupt thoughts and welter of emotions. More to share when we exchange letters next. Till then, stay in solitude.

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You are unnamed. You remain unnamed. Unlike you, I can offer you some dignity at least—the traits that make you—you.

You put my flesh on barter, and I surrendered my soul to you. That transaction was unbearable. It’s one of loss. I lose. You lose. The world wins. The society wins. My destiny was you. Still, it’s you. I know it’s you. You can’t convince me otherwise.

I voiced my grudge, but you turned a deaf ear. You destroyed me instead. My agony is more than the volume of rage you can take in. Such is my character. You built it for me—didn’t you?

In hindsight, you may realise that you left me in the middle of the road when I thought you were the shelter I built with my heart. Am I not worthy of your glimpse now? Your infidelity never surprised me.

I could see it in you when we were together. You were foolish enough to think that you blindfolded me. I just kept giving you chances, perhaps. Love is blind, indeed.

This is not rage. This is not anger. This is the pain I have been carrying for decades. I had to give it a shape. I owe my pain this much at least.

I am aware you have a partner now. I’m happy for your union. Or your reunion. Or your third union. I’m ashamed to even think how many times you made union with others. Guess what? I was also one of your unions… but a temporary one.

I have moved on. I think so. I’m not sure if the reality says the same. If not, let me drown deep in my sorrows again. Let me collect the debris of my destiny—we both shaped it together.

Will you come back? Am I still holding a candle for you? Will I accept you again? Can you accept me again? Can we bury the hatchet? It’s hard to answer, I suppose.

I’m not a bigger person anymore. I am a human being. Yes, that’s what I am. But what are you?

Do not disturb, for I’m busy collecting the debris of my destiny. Let me collect them in solitude. And once I’m done, I may see you on the other side. Be ready to collect your broken parts too. Karma never leaves an address.

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You know, my nail cutter has withstood the test of time, like me. It’s been with me for more than 15 years. Yes, I’m surprised too.

It’s the same as a wall clock in your home that decks your wall for decades, and still goes unnoticed. But if you come to think of it, that wall clock displayed time in units of age and the intensity of relationships.

But today is about my nail cutter. I use it every week. I keep it inside a tiny box that I bought during a flight years ago (image attached). Being a middle-class person, I had to keep the box. You see a box; I see utility.

Be it an office party, team meeting, casual gathering, a chronic disease, or a gym session, this nail cutter uplifts me. It is my walking companion. My love for it compounds with passing years.

When I was in 5th grade, my Hindi teacher scolded me for not getting a haircut. I think I developed the habit of grooming ever since. Now, I make sure I groom myself every week, without fail.

There’s this thing about being proper, presentable, and courteous—you exude charm and confidence.

This was my take on loving a material possession as divine as a nail cutter. Tell me about your favourite item or object that walks alongside you through your thick and thin.

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You were long gone. And you returned. But the grimace returned too. Clash, that is. No titans, though. I claim you. And I dare to.

Ah! The bouts of ecstasy. Are they mine? Allow me to engage in mirth tonite. Joy, I beg you. The moon embraces too. Ask no reason.

They threw me names. Debbie Downer, in particular. I wore your absence. Dark it is! I spew shades in rebuttal. I bear too.

Mark me a clown! But smile, will you? Ages ago, you crossed me. The tender you. The unfelt you. The delicate you.

Merry–Pop–Cherry. In my Ferry. Rejoice in reunion. Jump high, Joy, for it is communion.

Alas! The demons sprint. Not near me, but toward you. Are they in search of the sun too?

Joy, where are you? I see you. But I woke up too.

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Now imagine the same monkey placed in your lumber room. For months, the monkey stays there. Then it moves again but stays inside the house, even though you miss acknowledging its presence. You know why? Because it’s not about the monkey.

Monkey means chaos—or at least that is how we perceive their personality. But think from a monkey’s perspective. For you, they create mess. For them, you create mess. For them, everything makes sense. They are familiar with their activities. But are you?

The loan bothering you may stop bothering you once you acknowledge that you chose to take it in the first place. The relationship you are in right now gives you jitters. But you noticed the red flags earlier and still chose to continue. Was that a monkey trap too?

You start talking to your demons: Get this monkey off my back. It keeps jumping but never leaves the house. That is understood. That is human.

Life is chaos, even when it is also a calming river. Some of it is invited, some of it is gifted, and some of it gets carried forward—every day. But it is there. Do not deny it. Acknowledge the monkey instead. Sit with it. Entertain it. Offer some bananas.

And when the monkey is redirected, it may leave for its own journey.

Will it not?

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You said the world is my oyster. But when did I wear manacles? Masked camaraderies, faded shenanigans… and cold brews. And a season of appraisal too.

Oh, dear mama, what do I produce? These hours claim my hours. But they are mine to keep. Drag me more, dare you?

Work, son, work. Work, work, work! Tired is my ambition now; I loathe it. Mantel me or mantle me—choose today!

Look! They offered me an identity. A shameful act, that is. Wasn’t I born a son already? Then what’s the transaction? A dream for a dream, perhaps!

I conk out in a cubicle. Mere asleep. They wake me up for a task in deep. I wither with cacophony around. I thither and swamp.

Worship the work or work the worship? My stream flows consciously. Too many thoughts to harbour. Me and my neighbour.

But I still plead, no, mama, no. I do not dream of labour.

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Grandparents carry wisdom in their pockets. And that wisdom is shared with us in an engaging, thrilling storytelling manner—every single time. I’m sure your grandfather never failed to amuse you with the stories of his heydays. It never bores you. No… never.

Or your grandmother, with all love and soul, offers you sound advice to get through heartbreaks, and you’re just stuck on her aura farming. Aren’t they born storytellers?

They have the characters, the arc, the tension, the climax, and the ending—all of it perfectly intertwined, so that you may prefer skipping a movie night for this adventurous yet thoughtful session on life. Oh, there’s a villain too. There’s bragging too—on how they fought with people and situations bravely.

One time my father asked my grandmother to share an anecdote from her past where my grandfather fought thieves after midnight and scared them away, only with his baritone voice. She was lying down due to poor health, and I was in the seventh grade at that time. We spoke a lot that night, after dinner.

The interesting fact is that grandparents come with no prior experience in the field of storytelling, but I think it’s the way they have experienced life that makes them excel at it. They are the OG (Original Gangster), the G.O.A.T (Greatest Of All Time) in their field for that matter.

Whether you’re dealing with a job loss, a dog loss, a heartbreak, a serious fight with your best friend, or if society mocked you for any reason, they know how to cheer you up.

There’s another story I must share with you. Once my grandmother asked me to sit with her and then she started pulling my leg. She asked what I want to be when I grow up—the universal question.

Then I don’t know how the focus of the story turned to my father and his siblings and what they wanted to be when they were children. It amused me a lot as there were not many careers to pursue in the early ’70s and ’80s. But still, our parents gave us a good livelihood as they were given the same by their parents. The generation thing, I guess.

Now when I see banter between grandparents and grandchildren online like on Instagram reels or YouTube Shorts, it makes my heart swell with pride that I too lived the same feeling… but offline. How wonderful was the era before the internet!

I also see grandparents playing with little ones outside, helping them ride a bicycle or taking them for a stroll. It makes me wonder—these little ones are in the right hands.

That was my piece for you. Now you tell me your most cherished memories with your grandparents and how they influenced you.

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Your boyhood is calling you back. But can you travel? March past it, and you will wonder what you left behind—the giggles. But they pay no heed. Hunger is what they crave.

No, no, no! Not a word of surrender, for it will defy your ruse. Clear the rheum and dive into the spectacle that you are. But what do you show tonite?

Million seasons to your glory and a few glooms beside—you have a heart to hook them. Anchor that you are. But tell us, what do you show tonite?

Leftovers are desirable too. Collect the debris of destiny—you got this. He got this. She got this. Who doesn’t?

Show them the play of ecstasy or a dime to escape. You wore it all once. How about vulnerability? That truth entices millions. Or pick a pauper’s brain—I hear they see their kings differently. Aren’t your shoulders heavy?

Fool the world, starve the world, loot the world. Play, boy, play! Embrace the stage. It’s you tonite. It’s me tomorrow. It’s them overmorrow.

Lend me your ears before I retire. Listen but not hear, my sire—The show must go on. And, it must… Indeed!

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Some of us plan our trips around weekends and find an excuse to escape Monday blues or at least survive them in a lush green environment surrounded by beautiful mountains.

As humans, we strive for things that make us live more, love more, and laugh more. That somehow brings to the fore a debate about choosing Mondays or Mountains, and rightly so.

Now that we have the work-from-home option available, one can always work around planning that long-pending trip to the Himalayas. Not only do you rejuvenate yourself in the lap of the mountains, but you also find a sort of direction or purpose gradually. Some people prefer to stay longer, and then Mondays don’t look dreadful to them.

As a corporate professional, I have developed a habit of looking forward to Mondays, but with utmost positivity, unlike others who remain in the mountains even when they are present in the office. They seem lost. And that’s not totally wrong. I get it, you had fun after a tiring week at work, and you want to cherish that for longer. But money is important too.

I think it’s to each his own. But it doesn’t mean I’m against holidays or leaves. I am a mountain boy myself and spent half of my life basking in the glory of the sun. And I also get those de-stressing themselves, relaxing in a mountain hut. We all need rest from work, don’t we?

There’s work pressure. There’s family pressure. There’s societal pressure. There’s peer pressure. So it seems viable to get behind the wheel and hit the road… all the way to your favorite destination.

Still, the question remains: Mondays or Mountains? Given a choice, I would prefer Mondays in Mountains, but that’s a long road ahead.

What do you prefer?

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There’s some sort of confidence in those childhood years that words like encouragement and motivation seem like byproducts of your energy. You’re surrounded by guiding lights. You’re free. You’re fire. You’re everything a human should be. In brief, you’re gold. And you stay gold until life touches you.

Then come your teen years, followed by a comprehending phase of adulthood. Where has that radiance gone that we’d promised ourselves during our formative years?

The sunlight never irked us while playing a tough match of football outside, but it does now. You don’t acknowledge the little beam of halo within you anymore. You just walk past it. Isn’t the thought miserable in itself? You come back to life probably after it hits you. Then you think: Was all that pain worth it? I could have done things differently.

People cross you. You cross people. Some stay, some betray. Some find light in you. Some find misery in you. You disgust some. And some find you gold… pure gold. And you’re gold. Stay gold, Ponyboy! Do you recall this famous quote from S.E. Hinton’s novel The Outsiders?

Now you have a loan to repay, a family to manage, a job to secure, a car to buy, a café to visit, a jacket to try. You have apps to install and uninstall. You have gym protein to buy. You have a Spotify subscription to renew. So much to manage. You do all that well somehow. But you leave the crux behind—living. Yes—living.

I won’t deny that money is useful. It comforts you. It eases a lot within you. Neither am I saying to renounce everything and start exercising free will. But with a little balance, you can align your dream life with your present life. I’m not even talking about a fancy corporate job here. Get over it—and you must.

You still have an upcoming game of football. You still have a guitar by your side. You do have a garden to nurture as well. And most importantly, you do have the time to complete this list. Making time is an art. Doesn’t all this define you as gold? When did you think not to pursue yourself and build a dream home for others? That empire would fall eventually.

The book you started writing in your mind at night needs sheets now. The money you wanted to make out of your gigs is calling you. All you have to do is “believe in yourself.” Isn’t that simple?

Now that you are navigating adult life among millions of others and me, don’t you think it’s time to reclaim your gold and your sense of wonder?

I’ll end it here and leave you with nothing but a line—You were GOLD even before you knew it.

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Yes, you read that correctly. Milk boosts our energy and contains calcium, among other nutrients. But some kids hate it—some adults too. Remember how our parents were always on our heads, asking us to finish our glass of milk before heading to school in the morning and to the playground in the evening.

I recall an incident from my formative years. My mother used to command me to finish my milk before leaving for tuition. Parents often believe that if a child drinks milk, they’ll be full of energy all day long. It could be a myth too.

Coming back to the incident—I was in fourth grade, and I had to drink milk twice a day as part of my routine. There was a vase in my living room, decked with artificial leaves. I used to pour the milk into the vase, treating it like a kitchen sink. I swear my mother didn’t notice—until, after a month, the room started stinking.

She then called my aunt to figure out what it was. She suspected it could be bacterial growth emerging from an artificial plant. Yes, I laugh at it now—it amuses me, and how. Innocent mothers.

My brother, on the other hand, was a sucker for a delicious glass of Bournvita. He loved milk so much that he would ask for it deliberately. And of course, my mother used him as the example.

But I’m not sure if kids were really asked back then about their tastes in food and beverages. Now, there are unlimited options and alternatives. However, the question remains unanswered: do kids hate milk, or do they actually love it? In my mind, we haven’t reached a middle ground yet.

Share your thoughts. Be honest—it might just earn you some brownie points… dipped in life.

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But I refuse to be your concubine of desires. I am neither a trull to your gloomy fancies. Play me by me. I am well acquainted with your terms of engagement now.

Enough with your rounds of mirth. You bore me. Aren’t you in the mood? I bear and I bare. And my grimace is long gone too.

Come closer and be genteel, for I renounced flesh at the last supper. Touch me now—but with your grandeur. I may skid, but gift me volume. Will you?

Oh, make no mistake—I don’t swim in hubris. Don’t you know I am gullible too? Coronate me with your next ordeal, and you shall find me in flesh again.

But you throw a dice of ecstasy and demand a heart instead. I am no pawn to your hypnotic maze. Now I play you… by you.

Leave all that for the judgement day—and for now… just pop my rump. Can you?

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But when I entered my college life, raging hormones and the adrenaline rush to try adventurous things popped into my mind. And that included shifting to full-time smoking and occasional drinking. I know it’s funny, weird, and relatable.

I used to empty a pack daily and brag about it to my friends. I would look for the company of men or my seniors who glamorised smoking. You know the high you get after a fag, especially when it’s done in style. Youth and ignorance go hand in hand.

I took this habit back home. After every semester, I used to go home and brag about my college life to my local friends. I started smoking with them and at home discreetly.

I used to study for the exams that were due while preparing for the next semester. My routine included relishing a packet of potato chips, a can of Coke, and some fags. I was experiencing or rather inhaling “puffs of pleasure.”

I used to smoke in my room, and that was a living room too. The middle-class can relate to it. Owning a room is a big thing.

I was in my sophomore year when my mum caught me smoking—but indirectly. Her room was next to mine, and she could smell something foul – every night. It’s poor of me to say that she became a passive smoker because of my youthful mistake.

She didn’t confront me; rather, she asked my brother to tell me about it. Mothers and their silence… scary!

So, one day, when I was involved in a sibling fight (you know what’s coming next), some secrets were spilled to my mother. The blackmailing began soon after. That’s why having a sibling is important. They offer you a window to the world. They act as your ally more than your blood, all in the name and game of enjoying benefits.

Finally, one day, I confessed to my mother that I smoke and that I used to smoke in the room at night while studying. As mothers are, she hid my secrets from the world and from my father too. Were you expecting a solid beating from mom? 😂

Guess what? She just said to me, “Koi nahi, is umar me sab kartey hai.” (Don’t worry, everybody smokes in this young, impressionable age.)

I was relieved but felt guilty. I wept a little too. That day onwards, I did not smoke at home. But my habit didn’t leave me for long.

Now, when I look back at it, I realise some habits should not be termed as habits but addictions that can ruin your years of youth. They do have a bearing on your passing age too.

So, I urge everyone not to smoke. I can only request. It takes away years from your life. This was all from my side.

What’s your poison? Tell me your story.

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You are but a mere pauper. You stage lives and inherit borrowed dominance. With your loutish wit, you reach not near my lust. Fop is your name.

Look at me! I fight a road every day. And I witness halo, for I am my own person. I remain unvanquished. Allies may pin me, so be it. I dread fearful not fearless. I attend. I invite. I face. I become. I voice it.

Grave is your sin that you pity my company; the dark is entitled to its realm. Bury me or your gaze: I shame upon your countenance. Disappointments, but for what?

You name me a rambler. Inside your tongue is a shallow labyrinth of despise. Where do I march? I won’t even saunter.

Where is the Nectar? The sweet spine of mine. Did you borrow it as a pauper or inherit it like a boor? Either way, command, I dare you.

But this time too – you shall spew no nectar. Venom only, for foes didn’t baffle you yet.

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Me too.

Prepare!

Amuse me.

Drop your flesh.

I have endured worse.

I pity your confidence.

Try me!

Here you go.

Illusions? Bring it on!

Look! A mirror.

Clearly visible.

Then see.

I love a challenge.

Tell me what is it?

Myself. Can I go back?

Not possible.

You’re next.

Me? Past my prime.

Give it a man’s gaze.

Now we talking.

Tell me about it?

Sorrows!

Are we good?

As foe or friend?

What do you gather?

Bruised ego.

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