Kriti SharmaCurrently majoring in Facebook, Cracked and 9Gag, Kriti Sharma uses the cover of a postgraduation in English Literature from University of Delhi for whiling away time successfully. She gifted herself a camera one fine birthday and discovered a new world through the kit lens and extremely complicated manual settings of her DSLR. She hopes to buy more lenses some day. Donations are welcome.
She blogs at Faces Places Paces and enjoys watching random You Tube videos. |
Because...
I often forget that I can create things.
I can create good times.
I can create bad, really horrible times too.
I can create entire worlds and blow them up whenever I want. Or I could just leave them to fend for themselves when I get bored of the same old sluggish routine, when ennui sets in.
I can create people, give them a family or leave them all alone; lonely, happy, or sad- any way I want. I can make them cry or love or hate and I can even make them do it all at once. I can give them a sprawling bungalow or throw them on the streets to die. I can bestow the world’s riches on them or make them beg and steal for food. I could pull off their limbs and leave them crippled for life or I could give them a couple extra and make them a freak. I can also make them the finest specimens of human body the world had ever seen. I could provide them all the material comforts of the world, but only if I like them. If I don’t, then there’s no salvation.
In fact, I could even kill them and not worry about the clutches of the law.
I once killed a 4-year old girl’s family. I killed them because her name was Sam. I hated that name.
Don’t judge me yet. I am not always vengeful. There was a village in some desert- the name escapes me right now- in one of the worlds I had once created. It hadn’t rained there. The people were dying; they ate rotten meat, uncooked, straight off the carcasses of their long-dead cattle. I made it rain!
I can make the birds swim, fishes fly, rhinoceros dance. I can even make them talk.
I make animals out of humans and humans out of animals. I once gave a kid a computer because he so badly wanted it. But then he stuck to it. He stuck to it not like a Post-it but with superglue. He refused to do my bidding. That filthy little bastard wouldn’t budge. You know what I did? I blew up that computer in his face and made sure he lived to tell the tale.
And you know the best part? I can create the world’s most beautiful women and I can make them love me. All of them. At once.
They are pawns. Everyone is!
And me, you dare ask?
I am God.
I am a WRITER.
I can create good times.
I can create bad, really horrible times too.
I can create entire worlds and blow them up whenever I want. Or I could just leave them to fend for themselves when I get bored of the same old sluggish routine, when ennui sets in.
I can create people, give them a family or leave them all alone; lonely, happy, or sad- any way I want. I can make them cry or love or hate and I can even make them do it all at once. I can give them a sprawling bungalow or throw them on the streets to die. I can bestow the world’s riches on them or make them beg and steal for food. I could pull off their limbs and leave them crippled for life or I could give them a couple extra and make them a freak. I can also make them the finest specimens of human body the world had ever seen. I could provide them all the material comforts of the world, but only if I like them. If I don’t, then there’s no salvation.
In fact, I could even kill them and not worry about the clutches of the law.
I once killed a 4-year old girl’s family. I killed them because her name was Sam. I hated that name.
Don’t judge me yet. I am not always vengeful. There was a village in some desert- the name escapes me right now- in one of the worlds I had once created. It hadn’t rained there. The people were dying; they ate rotten meat, uncooked, straight off the carcasses of their long-dead cattle. I made it rain!
I can make the birds swim, fishes fly, rhinoceros dance. I can even make them talk.
I make animals out of humans and humans out of animals. I once gave a kid a computer because he so badly wanted it. But then he stuck to it. He stuck to it not like a Post-it but with superglue. He refused to do my bidding. That filthy little bastard wouldn’t budge. You know what I did? I blew up that computer in his face and made sure he lived to tell the tale.
And you know the best part? I can create the world’s most beautiful women and I can make them love me. All of them. At once.
They are pawns. Everyone is!
And me, you dare ask?
I am God.
I am a WRITER.
The night is your friend
There is nothing to be afraid. The night is your friend My friend Our friend When the curtains of death close upon you Think of the beige moon Of heaven’s high bowers that await Your misty breath Upon the icy petals Of roses and dandelions For there lies a brighter morrow When the sun rises In your final home Where they all await When silence stealthily creeps over all whispers Just sing yourself this song Fill the night with music And travel on. |
I Write of Those Who Give Me Gold
“The destiny and history of nations - Corroding, compromising Raided, deranged, derailed; The machines have churned out Great two dimensional heroes. The poet stands alone.” Through blood he wades Towards the crown Dead and gone Vanity of human wishes Of silken cloth Of laced up boots Leading on doom Disaster. Unloved, unmissed, unremembered No graves, no wood to burn No vultures either “Privileged, you want to live? Project, what? God – he dead;” Epitaph – ‘Here lies a poet’ Accepting commitment, Reasonable pride is motivation enough That impetus is now gone Clinging to dedications Growing, revolving Shrieking in the wilderness No voice, no words “Progress, then? What about the land? Did it sprout gold? Elucidate - Duly justified in terms of human content.” Analysts, economists They don’t know The poet stands still Talking about all you know and more No break, no disjunction “I do not write of the poet Disillusioned, embittered, lost. I write of those who give me gold.” |