We don’t know each other


With those intellect-drenched texts read,  those paintings stared at,  those strokes traced, those art pieces that pass off as vintage and occult and obscure studied with blank, awed eyes, who knows who knows what, really. Who knows, really, how many of us have managed to fool ourselves with the theory that we are trying to learn patience, that we have changed for good, that we did not hurt others, that hurting a certain person was justified because it served a purpose, that hurting can be for a noble cause, bah. Who gives it a moment of honest thought that we have lied to ourselves and chosen not to count. Who is willing to accept that we don’t like question marks and we omit them by choice.  Who has maintained that understanding others even in anger and grief is a choice one can make, even if it hurts to.   Does it ever bother us when we decide not to think because a small pain in our heart causes us to return it in multifold to others…Do we have so many people on earth… so many as to hurt and forget because being hurt is a sacrifice that entitles us to say whatsoever, act howsoever in the name of respect for self. That we read, talk, laugh but when it comes to living, we live to fulfil a great lie. 

P. S. I have omitted question mark  by choice. 

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