As We Proceed

Before you judge all the drug-addled, sorrow-driven, grief-stricken “junkies” out there, let us take a moment to analyze why they have reached the point where they are.
Some of you, most of you rather would say that they’re what society terms as “losers” because they can’t take what life throws at them and require assistance in handling themselves, leading to them experimenting with narcotics and finding a sickening solace in it, completely unjustified and horribly twisted in its conceptions.

You might attribute this to substance abuse considering the fact that they’re dependent on it to get them through the day. It’s either that, or they’re just party-ravers who’re looking for kicks.

But have you ever taken a moment to think why they do what they do? Have you ever taken a moment to think, as to what could have led to this scenery?

Society has pushed them to the limit that they can’t deal with things sober anymore. They’re so tired of being fucked over by whatever happens in their environment that all they seek is an escape from reality. Sobriety feels like a curse. Inebriation is comfort.

And as we proceed, to smoke weed, drink Henny, pop pills, snort lines, inject shit through our veins, we shall brush aside society’s expectations and its menacing presence from our daily lives.

Ignorance is bliss.



What is depression? The dictionary says that it’s a mood disorder causing a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest.

Depression has been a major game changer for a lot of lives. For example, let us look at Robin Williams. Hailed as one of the most hilarious comedians of all time, Mr. Williams was suffering from a severe case of depression. In fact, things were so bad for him, that he ended up committing suicide just to escape from it.

But to me, it isn’t what it is to most people. Depression is like an old friend. Kinda like Death was to Ignotus Peverell.

Once I got over the initial reluctance of getting acquainted with it, I found a beautiful solace in it. It never judged me for who I was or what I did. It never left me like those short moments of happiness did, as soon as something went wrong. It always came back, like a loving guardian, to hold me close to its chest and sing me songs that’d comfort me. The music would drown out the screams of pain and heartbreak. Serenity would prevail over my senses, in that small, peaceful space of mine.

And in that darkness, in that pitch black lonely street, I found something that I’d never thought I would. I found wings in depression. They’d let me soar up in the dark night, never letting go of me. I’d fly for hours on end, not caring what happened to me or where I went. Not caring about anything anymore.

I’d found what I truly desired. This was my identity. This was my solace. These wings would never let me drown in the Bermuda Triangle of love again. And I flew. Up, up and away.

m.A.A.d city

Jeffrey never was the kinda guy who’d throw up gang signs and rep colors. He was the shy kid on the block, never spoke much, never interacted beyond a certain level and sure as hell didn’t resort to violence when situations seemed to get out of hand. He’d always had a way with words.

Jeffrey never sought vengeance on anybody for any reason at all. He was the peaceful kind, the one who believed in compromise and dialogue as opposed to brute force.

Jeffrey loved his parents and would ride or die for them, under any circumstances. He’d been groomed in a manner that was only fitting for any child to receive and had always made his parents proud, be it academics, extracurriculars and so on and so forth.

Jeffrey was never the kinda guy who’d go out a lot and do things he knew he shouldn’t be doing.

But Jeffrey never knew that the death of his parents might change all his values in an instant.

Jeffrey never knew that throwing up gang signs and repping colors was the only way to keep your family truly safe, in this place they called home.

Jeffrey never knew that sobriety was a long lost concept. Inebriation was the new reality of the neighborhood he’d grown up in.

Jeffrey never knew that violence would provide his conscience a serenity that he’d never experienced before.

Jeffrey never knew that one day, eventually everyone falls prey to the m.A.A.d city. Just like he had.

The Truth Behind Our Lies

I don’t usually do this but I feel that I’ve hit a place where I really need to vent out what I’ve had on my mind since a really long time. Why do people lie? To cover their asses? To make sure that the world doesn’t get to know what kind of a heinous monster they really are? Or is it something so fundamentally human, that no person can escape it? I’ve said my fair share of lies to people. A bit too many, actually. I’ve lost track of what I’ve said to whom. But the biggest mistake is saying that first lie. That first lie, which leads to the second, then to the third and before you know it you’re neck-deep in a pool full of lies. I just lost the person who mattered the most to me because of this habit of lying. We were supposed to complete 8 months on the 15th of July, but now, she can’t even stand the sight of me. Which is justified. She took my shit for almost 8 months, stood by me when I had no one and then some, and I fucking kept on lying to her. It’s not until you lose someone that you realize the cost of losing them. I probably just fucked up the best thing that ever fucking happened to me. I deserve it, yes. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe, if I stay the fuck away, she’ll finally be happy. She’ll know what happiness means, and she won’t have to put up with a lying cheat to get to know that either. She’ll be happy. Even if that comes at the cost of my sanity. Because that’s all I want, really. Her happiness. Nothing else would make me happier than her happiness. But then, how am I gonna be okay? I love her, and I’m gonna change myself. But it isn’t gonna be for her. I’m gonna change for myself. I’m gonna become a better person. Maybe she’ll come back, maybe she won’t. Only time will tell. I really hope she does. This? This is gonna be my first step towards redemption. After all, it’s better to go down with a fight, right?

The Man In The Mirror

Ever since he was a little boy, he’d been observing the man in the mirror who’d mirror all his movements. He was fascinated by it in the stage of infancy, attracted to it in adolescence and discussed philosophy with him in the adult stage of his life.

He still remembers the first time he stood in front of the man in the mirror before his first football game. He’d preached words of courage and motivation, the man; pumped up the little kid with determination. When he scored 98.2% in his final year, the man in the mirror toasted to him and cried tears of joy with him.

When he finally found the woman he wanted to marry, the man in the mirror flipped out with joy. When he landed his first paycheck, the man in the mirror rejoiced as if it were him who got the paycheck. The man in the mirror witnessed the boy’s first kiss and never had he been more proud of his steps.

The man in the mirror didn’t come with holy intentions.

When the boy was having a hard time, the man in the mirror inspired him to indulge in intoxication. When he was fighting with his girlfriend, the voice of the man in the mirror screamed in his brains, asking him to beat the shit out of her. When he beat her up in front of the man in the mirror, he cheered for the boy. When he first killed a man in front of the man in the mirror, he felt as if he’d made his father proud. The night when he slashed his own wrists at the request of the man in the mirror, was the night when the man in the mirror won. He’d played all the right cards. He’d made the perfect demon out of a kid who was so good, he could serve as an agent of peace. He’d corrupted something so pure, so young that even Lucifer would be afraid of him. He’d succeeded at spreading death and terror in this world.

And the boy? He loved the man in the mirror. He owed so much to him. He’d been there throughout his life. As a little boy, the man in the mirror would just mirror his movements. As he grew older, the man in the mirror started speaking to him. They clicked real soon and the lonely, scrawny kid now had a friend who looked exactly like him. He’d tell the man in the mirror everything. He’d lay his soul bare and ask for guidance and cousel from the man in  the mirror. He’d always been an obedient boy. The man in the mirror showed him the path to salvation. He did his very best to attain salvation. He obeyed every order the was conveyed to him by the man in the mirror. He’d achieved what every human being only dreamt of achieving. Eternal salvation. He closed his eyes and let his soul get let rip into shreds as this song played in the background. He was finally found peace.

“Satanic verses,

It’s the tales of the evil,

We’ll never have for a victim.”

good kid

I knew this kid that was born to my brother. He was a nuisance, that kid. Never sat in one place. Slave feet, he had. His mama always told us he’d represent our nation on the international stage.

When he was a boy of 11, he started showing a flair for academics and music. He started listening to Hip Hop and exploring people’s trials and tribulations. He was top of his class, all the time. Never missed out on anything. He was kind of a loner, this kid. Never could make a lot of friends. He also had a knack for ending up head over heels for women way beyond his league. But he was a good kid.

When he was in 10th grade, this straight-A scoring, lonely little kid who had no one to talk to, to share his feelings with, went from an antisocial personality to a social creature. His life turned upside down when he came into contact with other creatures like himself. He had friends, now. To share his feelings with. Who’d always have his back through his tough phases. Who’d do anything for him.

Mentally, this kid transformed from a 5-year old who would skate over a powdered floor to a teenager who had responsibilities to fulfil and people to take care of and people who’d take care of him.

The only thing he had not experienced yet was reality. See, all this happened from blooming age of 5 to his initial adolescent age. His parents had protected him from the evils of society. His own mentality had blocked him out of any such interactions that would lead him astray. But how long could they keep him safe from the outside world?

They could see their little baby bird growing wings and showing an eagerness to spread them and soar on the clouds. Their instincts told them that they should check their child’s flight from the beginning and make sure that he doesn’t fly too far away. But at some point of time they had to introduce him to the real world. How long could they keep their baby’s wings pinned? He wanted to fly and they let him take flight for the first time when they let him go out with his friends. They wanted him to feel independence. They wanted him to experience life. They wanted him to enjoy life a little bit. But little did they know that this decision of theirs would come back to haunt them for the rest of their short lives.

His behavior started changing. He went from mama’s sweet and obedient boy to the rebelious young kid who wouldn’t take no for an answer. His face wasn’t the same anymore. It was always flushed red. He’d gotten into bad company.

In the end, even the good kid fell prey to the m.A.A.d city

The Tortured Artist.

Out of all the mentality distorted and beautifully twisted minds that exist in this planet we so affectionately call the Earth, there lived a speck in this pool of immensely talented yet insanely distorted human beings, so to speak.
This speck didn’t have a name. This speck had an interesting past, though. You see, people always have this premonition that an artist’s past is so dark, it would put Edgar Allan Poe to shame. Their state of mind so fragile, it might shatter at the slightest hint of negative criticism. Their thought processes so distorted, a normal man would shriek out of sheer and utter disbelief. But these premonitions were true and more for this particular person.
She’d lost her parents at an early age, to something the papers called “an unfortunate car accident.” She grew up amongst strangers, physical and mental abuse being the only true constants throughout her childhood, the taste of tears more familiar to her than that of water.
When she went to school, her teachers labeled her as that awkward kid who’s never found without her sketch pad. People made fun of her physical appearance, not knowing that she had to fend for herself in her foster house, not knowing that the only way she ever got food was if she stole from the refrigerator, not knowing that the scars that she tried to hide were either from the several beatings she received from her foster parents or from the several other attempts she made at taking her own life.
When she first fell in love, she hadn’t found a feeling more elating and horrific at the same time. The guy was some senior whose name she doesn’t recall now, but what she will always remember is his voice. That soft voice which would whisper words of affection in her ears, the very same voice which spit words of malice at her after he’d grown bored of her. She remembered how lovely his smile was, the very same, crooked smile he had stuck on his face when he hit her for not obeying him. She couldn’t live with him. But she couldn’t possibly exist without him. And when he left, that was the moment she really grew up. She grew to hate the feeling of being in love.
So she escaped to her reality, spending hours mindlessly doodling on her sketchpad. This was a place where no one could intrude. This was her solitude. Her world, where she was the master of what she created and not the malicious Fates which seemed to like playing around with hers. She would showcase her art, post pictures on Instagram, garnering critical appraisal from her peers.
But all the appraisal could never overshadow the horrors of what she had faced. Her suicidal tendencies made her drown in Hennesey and fly off Cali, getting lifted more than she was aware of her surroundings. Being sober made her feel nauseous. Intoxication became her newfound love, it became her reality. And in this alternate reality, the old one was forgotten. Her art had been slaughtered, butchered by the love of poison in her liver. The people she could call friends had left her for reasons her buzzing brain couldn’t fathom. In her loneliness, her kitchen knife became her best friend. And one fateful night, it wrapped itself lovingly around her wrists and dug deep, never to let go- it became a part of her. And as she drowned out from the alcohol so did her screams to the loud music that was blaring from the speakers on the nearby streets. She’d finally lost consciousness once and for all, and all that she could remember were the first couple of lines of that very same song, playing on rewind in her twisted brain.

“Don’t you open up that window,
Don’t you let out that antitode…”