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Deformed butterflies

The problem with life in general is that we cannot stay for long in this self-generated quasi video game emulator type of a setting. Inevitably, we end up coming too close to reality than one might want to.  As you age, the cocoon within which you are comfortably nested slowly peels away and the world expects that within its safe confines, you’ve successfully transformed yourself into a butterfly. But what if you could not become a butterfly? What if you ended up being some sort of a deformed or mutated version of a butterfly? Wouldn’t you desire to return to that shell of security? Won’t you crave to get back to that illusory world wherein everything seems to be within your control?
You realise that life is different for butterflies and deformed butterflies. Deformed butterflies cannot fly as high as their ambitions, they cannot reach their goals, and they see their contemporaries rising far above them, spreading their beautiful wings and enjoying ‘reality’ much more than its former illusory version. But there is one thing that these deformed butterflies can do which their normal cannot- they die out.
But a slightly softer version of this otherwise staunch reality is in force for the ‘deformed butterflies’ of the Human realm. We’ve managed to create permanent cocoons to keep us from facing too much reality than we can bear. And we’ve labelled these permanent cocoons as ‘Family’. This institution stretches to unimaginable limits for the sustenance of ‘deformed butterflies’, but even this institution might fail if a family comprises of only ‘deformed butterflies’.

This self-sustaining structure is possible only with the involvement of fully capable butterflies & without their involvement; its resistance to reality is like that of the security of an email account whose password is “password”. Its foundations are so weak that it might just follow Newton’s theory of gravitation, as this world will manage to pull it down.

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अँधेरा

हम तोह दुनियादारी के चंगुलों में फस्स कर, ज़िन्दगी को ही भुला बैठे, जो चाहा था की कलम से हो ज़िन्दगी , उसी कलम को सजा ए मौत सुना बैठे... हम ऐसे अंधेरो में बस चुके है, जहां दिये जलते नहीं, फिर  भी यह ज़ालिम दिल ने, दिवाली का इंतज़ार करना सिख दिया... अरे कलम से निकलती शब्दों की दरिया सूख चुकी है, पर यह कमबख्त आँखों ने आंसुओ से लफ्ज़ बयां करना सिख दिया. 

Home

Home, the several connotations with which this word is associated are enough to dazzle someone into a reverie of mixed emotions, of familiar faces, of friendly words, of a place which would forever embrace us with warmth whenever we choose to return. We can spend an eternity abroad but our feet would always guide us home, and when we do we shall be enveloped with genuine exultation... But when you do return you’d find that you’ve replaced the old with the new, and people in front of whom you could once pour your heart out, have been turned into strangers...You’d find that you’ve lost the people who once defined your life, and you don’t like this new ‘definition’ which has been embossed upon your existence. But you cannot get rid of it, its stuck...you are forever doomed, for things can never go back to how they were... Life isn’t a video tape which would have a rewind button...however hard you may wish it to be... As innocence began to slowly mould itself into sarcasm, praise