The forged personage

I want to be perfect. My quest in being a good human never stops. And, this awareness proves everyday that I can’t be the person I dream to see in others. This seems fictitious to the perfect men and women. You are what I want to be. It is like wanting to have a moon in your backyard. Looks beautiful with it’s own bright, and even possible if you consider just anything that shines as your moon.

We all know that this moon is not real. It’s the one at the backyard.

If there is any perfect human on this planet, I am sure this person gave up on being physical. The quest, I see, changes the faces for me and also the questions it is asking. Maybe one day I’ll stop dreaming, and that’ll be my death.

I don’t want to be perfect. The choice to be an imperfect kid always, wondering what it means to be a good human, will keep me going.



I don’t like hating people. Here’s the thing, I generally don’t hate. But, when I do, it feels like my motive is absolutely right. And, that is something I have to deal with in a way I don’t understand.

Says a note signed “Me” on the canteen’s refrigerator.

This person mostly loves someone who is good to be ignored, if not hated. At college canteen, such notes are rare to find. The person writing them usually makes sure we know who wrote it and why.

That’s precisely why people stopped taking them seriously. Much like Facebook, but in real. I look around, eating my pie, and there she is, crying alone with her burger.

I don’t know why, but it felt like she was the one who wrote it. I did not want to judge a personality so real that she is crying in the crowd.

I walk up to her. Offer the remaining of what’s left on my plate. She does not respond. Gets up and walks away. Maybe she thinks I am the one who judged her for being real.

But, it’s not me.