Dear reader, I write to you:

To hear the epic tales of my wild dreams, you must first be aware of the fact that I’m not that much of a slumberer. Neither am I a stranger to the drowsy effect of dark clouds and twinkling stars.

Dear Reader, I Write to You:

"When power comes and much is expected, would you do the good or watch the people shed a thousand tears?"

Everything is wrong. I can tell that you feel it too by how you have your wrists clenched too tightly, defying the crème de la crème poise you were taught to maintain when you were just a boy. Everything is wrong but your mouth would not betray you by letting the truth roll out freely because your kinsmen taught you that proletarians have no business seeing an upper crust’s asthenia.

You were formed out of the leaves of a baobab tree and I was made out of its branch, we can both be traced back to the same roots. Do what you like, deny it all you want but the truth is like dark clouds hanging over the earth, it is going to rain eventually. And when it does, your fine clothing would be drenched in the consequences of your arrogance and you would wish you had learned the sacred act of humility when you could.

Dear reader, I write to you:

The wise words of a tale man have guided our needless odyssey so far. "The answers that you seek are seeking you too", he said. Why then have we been searching mindlessly for what is supposed to be seeking us? Why have we searched till our sweats turned to sizzling blood and found nothing?

One of us is caving timidly into a shoddy, reticent thing. One of us is getting high on the thumping adrenaline that this sage of hysteria is forcing into the atmosphere.

One of us is lying, one of us is hiding behind a transient web of raging nerves because the truth has many layers and there are too many lies that both of us would rather keep within the four walls of this room.

Cold eyes hiding cunningly behind an aegis of gloom. Daring glare, scornful like the devil’s snare whispering — “what is dead is never truly dead.” Your savage hands reek of the raw scent of woe, angst and everything in between. You’re not a man. You’re not quite the beast. Are you the thing that makes life seem too short to live? Or you’re the truth attests to the phoenix’s myth?

And like a ball of yarn, I lay loosely in your hands. You push, I pull. Silent night but your poise echoes loudly through the corners of the room. Wrapped in a semblance of indifference but I know what’s coming. I hear the words that your mouth isn’t saying —“Alas! The deathless lives again.”

"Checkmate, I win"

But is that really true?, Should that lauding hubris even be on your face or should you silently thank the stars that aligned in your favour today?

You stand against a wall; you sink into it.

You rest your back against a tree, the breeze rubs you green.

You follow me around like a shadow. I don’t need cynical eyes to see you in these twists and turns. Maybe our souls are tied or perhaps, it is our hearts that are in sync. I’m earnestly seeking answers in these twists but you’re the only thing I see in every corner I turn. You’re everywhere, all at once. Makes me wonder if we are just alike or if we are one.

I’ve heard that water quenches fire but I still don’t know what quenches fiery thoughts.

I have seen firefighters put out infernos effortlessly but I still haven’t seen anybody smolder the flameless fire that burns inside the mind.

If we play by the rules, rock crushes scissors and the winner takes it all. But you are scorned to admit that you can't handle this loss.

So you argue and stomp your foot loudly against the marble floor, hoping to prove some sort of false indignation.