A Manipulative Game With The Self
I have been thinking of pouring the real ink on the real paper.
Do you get me?
This is magical that somebody is trying to be real but how illogical is it to be real anyway. When I try to be real, I find thousands of unreal ideologies spitting right on me. And at the exact moment papers call me and say “write on me”.
Is it difficult to just be?
See how manipulative I can be, but my knowing of my own skill of manipulation and then controlling myself on not manipulating something that is meant to be changed, I am definitely playing a game with my own self.
The simpler, I try to be, the more combative my notions become. The cleaner I seem to be, the more dirt sustains over my head. Arranged gestures of mine convey good tude to you but simultaneously my open wings hurt there inside. They are not allowed to make noise with their flutter. My tantrums are well dressed in those polite speeches. My free thoughts are holding freedom of other thoughts.
I can’t dance on those songs which are rare of this era, which travel from my childhood to my youth in my head and heart. I can’t draw nudes of a burnt body, because they are the symbol of negative.
Gosh! there is much more and my pen is now weak to cover all the weaknesses. And at the same time, it urges to get refilled.
Hey pen, how manipulative are you?
People are far away from this theory of manipulation; they find it really bad to be manipulative unaware of the fact that their heart and mind live inside the dead skin all with manipulation and adjustment.
I am glad I am a writer because words are a good source of manipulation.
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