An Irrelevant Teenage Scripture
It’s one of those nights when my fingers yearn to write but words won’t just come out of my birdcage ribs. A note to self: I’ve conquered it. Call it a Buddhist enlightenment or an Astrological phenomena in my birth planet, whatever you please. But I call it waking up. It is waking up after having one of those regular nightmares of falling down and crashing on the cold hard concrete; my life scattered all around me in the floating moats of dust.
Do you know why writers write what they write? My question doesn’t make any sense but my answer probably will. Us, writers, have a bad habit of romanticizing our pain. However, we cannot be entirely blamed for this. Since nobody wants to hear how some of us were raped at adolescent, or how a few of us are financially miserable or how one of the 50 years old writer here gazes at a 21 years old’s breasts in the bus – romanticizing our pain and faking a glory of our scarred minds is a must. Every poem or literary piece needs two spoonful of sickness and three spoonful of excruciating pain.
They call us sick and scarred but still live on our words. We hurt so you can enjoy these life changing novels, and bone-wrecking poems. It hit me on a summer afternoon, about an hour before iftaar that I could still release booklets of my misery on the internet through prose that will perhaps be never published in a book. But that’s okay, I suppose.
Right now, I have half a mind to write about why atheists are atheists. I’m not here to take part in a religious war, I mind you. Pardon me for I’ve grown a bad habit of straying off topic and being irrelevant over time. But I think atheists do not despise religions, they actually despise themselves. They do not believe that they are worthy of being loved by something much greater than their own kinds, a celestial power, a divine kiss. So they reject the idea of God. They probably want very little from life and its infinite offerings.
Atheists are atheists because they do not know what to do with an eternity.
Now before I dot my scripture with a virtual full-stop, I’d like to remind myself again that I’ve conquered it. All this time, the only person undermining my strength was I, myself. And now that I’ve been pushed past my breaking point, I’ve finally conquered death.