FERT

Growing up was a mess, so I made a vow to my unborn children: You will have the best of me. The love my parents couldn't give, I promised to pour out in floods. I clawed through the ache of a childhood starved of warmth, clinging to the hope that I could build something better. Academics - checked. Job - secured. Husband - found. But I married a man still bleeding from his own unhealed wounds . Two broken people don’t make a whole. They just bleed on each other. So even before I could hold my pristine child, the furnace of marital strife had already scorched the softness in me. I became the version of my mother I swore I’d never be. And my father? His ghost lives in me too; passive aggression leaking out like stench from an open sewer. I thought I was free. I thought I’d left lies behind. But my own faults stacked up like cargo, and suddenly, I was always on the defensive. Then came the comet's flash ; that bright, burning promise of the mother I’d be. But it died before it ev...

  I was dressed for success. Power suit? Check. Confident smile? Practiced in the mirror. Most importantly, in my pocket, a single, flawless PEN . Not just any pen. This was my symbol of authority. This was the instrument of my destiny. I signed the documents with a flourish, the nib gliding across the paper like a figure skater on fresh ice. The man across the desk, a CEO with a handshake like a vice, smiled. "Congratulations," he boomed. "You'll be credited by end of day." End of day! Me! The first billionaire in my family! The one who would finally buy my mother that house with the wrap-around porch ! The one who would pull up to family gatherings in a car that cost more than some people's homes ! All of it, every brick and every horsepower, was a reality I had just sealed with my PEN! I leaned back, picturing the headline: " Local Pen Enthusiast Becomes Overnight Success ." The feeling was so sweet, so real… BZZZZZZZZT. My elbow slipped off th...

The earth does not apologize for shaking. The rain does not ask permission before it falls. We invented guilt. Painted it on our ribs like a second skeleton, Then wondered why we couldn't stand up straight. Child of stardust and supernovas — You were not born broken. You were not assembled from other people's disappointments. There is no manual. There is no correct way to bloom . When your own mind becomes a courtroom, When the verdict has been rehearsed before you even speak; Ask yourself: Who taught you this script? Whose voice is this, wearing your mother's tone, your lover's disappointment, your own childhood fear? The dung beetle does not despise its work. The flower does not hide its roots. What you call waste, the tree calls wedding feast . What you call falling, the universe calls arrival. So let them keep their rules. Let them keep their sharp-edged words, Their tidy boxes, Their hunger for your shrinking. You are not theirs to diminish. You are the witness an...

 First, a window of loneliness, cracked wide  An invitation to the moon’s dark side . Then, the brief collision, heat without light, A fevered, fleeting coitus in the night. And from that spark, a madness: “Marry me,” We whispered to a face we did not see. Marriage is not friendship. It’s a lens. Character , in time, breaks its defense. The stranger stood revealed, a troubled shore, A wedlock of the mismatched, wanting more. Oh, wisdom learned in bitter, slow unveil: Better to be barren than to sail A child into a storm where hands withdraw, Where love is lawless, and the past is raw. What call is there to summon from the dust A life to cradle in manipulative trust ? Why bring a soul into this modern air; A world of circuits, algorithms, glare -  To bear the ancient burdens, poorly buried? The ghosts you carry, heavy and unwaried? The future’s challenge is a different breed, An AI age with its own thorny seed. Why strap an old world’s weight to their new back? Why give ...

The Love Before The Altar .  This is for the kiss that thought it was a covenant, For hands that linked as one, yet were called disparate. For the garden we planted in the ignorant snow, Where our puppy love , bright and shameless, could grow. It grew past the teasing, past the first foolish fight, Past the secret sweet nothings whispered into the night. It thought it was a tree, deep-rooted, vast, and true,  Until they brought the lightning no sapling can construe. The Junction . Here, the maps of bloodline and the charts of caste were spread. Here, the cold slide of a lab report sealed all that was unsaid. Here, “maturity” meant letting go, not holding on. Here, pure love was a language the pragmatic world had shunned. We stood there, you and I, with futures in our eyes, Watching our fierce, fragile thing meet its swift demise. Not by our will, but by the stern, unyielding hands Of genotype ’s grim verdict, and social class ’s demands. You left to build a life upon a stabl...

Two worlds collide: the realm of moral absolutes and the domain of worldly pragmatism. We're taught to uphold the sacred tenets of righteousness, yet the whispers of innovation and progress beckon from the shadows of societal values. There are the '12 o'clock' purists, bred to prioritize virtue above all else. Their unwavering commitment to morality often renders them aloof, isolated from the pulsating rhythm of the world. On the opposite end, the '6:30' free spirits dance to the beat of unbridled social liberty, morality cast aside like a forgotten relic. But what of those who dwell at the zenith of balance, the '6 o'clock' harmonizers? They walk the tightrope between righteousness and pragmatism, intuitively sensing when to yield to virtue and when to indulge in life's sweet temptations. In this delicate plain, balance is key. The art of knowing when to be good and when to be bad – not for the sake of rebellion, but for the beauty of harmony. F...