2 NOV 2017 AT 17:05

Life is often a mix of choices, my friend.
Choices, you'd seldom fulfill.
Fulfilment, the sprinkle of a nasty curse;
A curse, conjured by the sacrifice of identity;
Identity, not of your self, nor of your being;
A being, as real as the warmth in your breath.
A breath, so deceptive, so real, drenched in your blood;
Your blood, an amalgamation of your pain, love and regrets;
Regrets, stowed carefully beneath the quilt of memories unwashed;
Memories, fragrant, sublime, rotten and heavy;
So heavy, even words turn into swords, snow or a sponge;
A sponge so soft, embalmed in the bowl of affection;
caressed in the palms of forgiveness.
Forgiveness, not for the self, nor for the cursed;
for suffering, like an infidel spouse, is seldom unwanted, my friend.

Oh, but don't you worry;
for ain't life, often a mix of choices?

Choices you'd seldom fulfil;
Choices you'd rather die for, than kill.

- AbhiN