Transient-class prose


I was never in for the love story

that’s why it all feels so numbingly confusing in the aftermath

I’m soft and fall in love too easily

I was in for the civil society integration work, for the friendship, for the creativity, for my political beliefs, for our common interest in literature, for his future gratitude

He came from a canny ethnicity and remaining true to his heritage

I come from a middle class family, which has rejected anything shrewd  a few generations now

He grew up with stories of  domestic-violence, migration and survival

I grew up with stories of my right-winged well-off ancestors courageously helping out their communist friends during the civil war

He tried to teach me the intricate ways of being street-wise, I tried to teach him the luxurious ways of being humane


But now that we have returned to the worlds where we come from, with sociopolitical turmoil beneath our feet, can we claim that we are in complete loss, that all we learned was our inability to adapt?

Is everything that tore us apart stronger than the things that brought us together?

Are the grapes of wrath merely a monument?

Will he ever be able to think beyond egotistically pleasing himself in a counter-argument against epigenetic hardship?

Could he really prove my suspicious from early-on and yet gracious and supportive middle-class friends wrong?

Does he realise that unless he accepts the political causes for all the bullying he was subjected to and convey them into something meaningful and honest, he will never escape?

Will I ever escape my self-defeating nihilist narrative?

So the last will be first and the first will be last

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