I don't know if God is real or not, if it exists or not, if it created this world or not. Or maybe God is real but didn’t create the world, or maybe God is real, created the world, but not for the reason we think. I don’t know if there is one God or many, if one rules over all galaxies or if there are separate gods for each individual galaxy.

I don’t know.

But what I do know is that people; they are real. They can be touched, felt, loved, and hated. They are dying and killing in the name of God, either willingly or unwillingly, but they are.

And if God is not real, then dying in the name of something that doesn’t exist makes no sense. But even beyond the question of whether God is real, people are still dying and killing in God’s name.

Is this truly a war of the gods between the real one and the fake one?

Let’s not get graphic, please, social media has already taken care of that. But think about it. Why?

In my opinion, the war isn’t about different types of gods but about the cultures built under the name of God. For instance, if one community worships trees as sacred while another cuts them down for paper and resources, conflict is inevitable. At its core, that’s the dispute.

In retrospect, it is not, never was, and never will be a war over God, but a war over culture. And the thing about culture? No one truly cares about it until there is competition.

Humans, whether created by God or not, are meant to live in harmony. But we are too animalistic to even acknowledge that.

8.2 billion people.

8.2 billion possibilities.

8.2 billion philosophies and ideologies.

And the ego that people carry and the belief that they are never wrong. And when people are never wrong, they can never be rational. And when people are never rational, they can never live in harmony. Rationality is the only seed needed for peace, because it builds perspective.

If I had to sum it up, I’d say: if humans were created by God, it was for one reason and that was to live. But we fucked it up. We took a bite from the fruit of knowledge, lost all our powers, became mortal, and to prolong our mortality, we altered living into surviving.

Surviving like any animal does in the jungle. But because we are social animals, we got creative with our survival.

And survival has one rule: last man standing.

That’s why people are dying and killing.

Cultural warfare: Last man standing. Who dies and kills? People.

Political warfare : Last man standing. Who dies and kills? People.

God’s warfare : Last man standing. Who dies and kills? People.

National warfare : Last man standing. Who dies and kills? People.

A beautiful world that could have been has now turned into a game of chess. The king and queen die last. But the first to be thrown out? The pawns. Then, one by one, the elephant, the horse, and the camel.

¯\(ツ)/¯

This is us, after eating the fruit of knowledge. No wonder it was forbidden. Maybe, MAYbe, MAYBE, Steve knew that his reflection couldn’t handle what was meant for him, or her, or it. But what difference does it make?

"Does it ever get tiring for you?" I asked.

"Every day, every hour, even every single second of a minute," he replied.

"Why don't you just give up and let go?" I said.

"I can't. I just can't. I want to, but I can't," he answered.

"Don't you see where this is leading you?"

"I do, but my hands are tied—my mind, my soul, my will, even my thoughts are tied."

"Doesn't it eat you up?"

"It does. But I do what I do, and what I do is what I am told to do."

"What do you do?"

"Break him."

"Break who?"

"You don't need to know."

"Why do you break him?"

"Because I am told to."

"What do you do?"

"Fake a life."

"What life?"

"This life.

My smile—it's fake. My appearing as if I'm progressing—it's fake. I think I've gone evil."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he is the last thought before I fall and the first after I rise."

"Why is he so important?"

"Not to me, but to the ones who order me."

"Why can't you leave?"

"But then what would I do?"

"Whatever you like."

"What I like is to run. Running burns calories, and calories come from food. But I have no way to buy food on my own. Not after what I’ve seen. Not after what I’ve done. I can't go back and join the crowd—not when I'd have to start from scratch."

"But at least you'd end the loop."

"You might think that, but then I would become him, and someone else would become me."

"So?"

"I can't fight myself. Even now, I get the bare minimum to survive. If I lose even that, I won’t be stuck—I’ll be underground. First metaphorically. Then literally."

"How did you end up in this situation?"

"The way anyone in this world gets hired—my desperation, their manipulation."

"This is toxic, you know."

"I know."

"What's the way out?"

"For me? None."

"For him?"

"He found it."

"And that makes you envious?"

"Nope."

"Then?"

"I hate him."

"Because he has what you don’t?"

"Because he can. And I can't."

"Who said that?"

"I said that."

"So it's your choice to stay in the loop?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

"Then what is your choice?"

"I don't have a choice. I have a job I hate, but I do it anyway because it brings me the food I need for the calories I burn by running."

"What did he do?"

"He escaped."

"How?"

"Courage."

"You don’t have it?"

"If I had it, I wouldn't be spending what little I get on your food instead of mine."

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Mental asylum."

"And if you quit everything?"

"In a broken house. With rusted utensils. Leftover food. Pending electricity bills."

"And if you join the crowd?"

"Lost."

"Is 'lost' worse than all that?"

"Yes."

"Let me ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"Do you really want help, or do you just want to look like you're seeking help?"

"I don't know. I have to ask."

Either one of them had to go. It had been a very long game of manipulation—where one was powerful, the other resourceful. Gone were the days when there was a duel for a fair chance to stand at the end, where the other became the victim of their slowness.

Spencer had been waiting for a while now. He started off with a light breakfast, his men surrounding him, and occupying every single seat in the café. Three hours went by, and it was lunchtime. He called the waiter for the lunch menu. It was unlike him; he ordered two portions of a seven-course meal for himself and began to eat when it arrived. He was on his fourth course when a limousine stopped outside the café across the road.

A woman stepped out of the car and glanced at him. He acknowledged her with a chin flick, and she nodded in return.

Her name was Dakota. Her men emptied the café as well and secured every seat.

Spencer and Dakota faced each other—he was eating his food with his hands like they do in prison, while Dakota sat poised, waiting for him to finish. Not once did they take their eyes off each other. Their men were prepared to charge.

The silence around them was enough to put up a sign that read: We are closed.

After Spencer finished his food, he ordered himself a cup of coffee. Dakota imitated the gesture. Looking at Dakota, he put two packs of sugar in his coffee, while Dakota put only one. One of his men grabbed the tray and walked towards Dakota, and her man did the same. At the intersection, they exchanged trays and brought them back to Spencer and Dakota.

They gazed at each other for hours; the coffee had gone cold, all the staff members of the cafe locked themselves in the kitchen.

Dakota couldn’t take it any longer and ordered one of her men to drink the coffee. He was scared, but what option did he have? He finished it in one go. It was then that Spencer drank his coffee himself, he kept looking at her, slowly his eyes turning red, and he vomited blood. His men put him inside his car and left.

Her entire team shouted in triumph, but it sent Dakota into silence. A layer of tears formed in her eyes, hidden beneath her shades.

“Congratulations. What no one could ever do, you did it, ma’am.”

And she left the cafe in fear, she whispered, “What have I done? What now…?”

Recently, I watched a film called Storyteller, based on a story written by Satyajit Ray. If you don’t know who Satyajit Ray is, you must look up his biography. Honestly speaking, I found the story to be very calm and gripping. For some, it may seem slow, but I liked it. After I finished it, I found myself stuck with the idea of a storyteller and a writer.

There is no single source for storytelling, it may come from imagination, experience, memories, people, and many more influences. But does that mean a good storyteller is also a good writer? I don’t think so.

Storytelling is a craft that holds the audience in the moment while the story is being told, but writing one comes with more challenges. There’s structure, flow, errors, and whatnot.

I’ve always been a storyteller, whether as a child, telling my mother stories to scare her, or in college, spinning erotic tales for a friend just because he said I couldn’t do erotica. But when my journey as a writer began, I realised that most of the stories we tell are not worth reading.

The craft demands discipline, dedication, and focus, which in itself is extremely challenging. A good writer can be a good storyteller, but it’s not necessary that a good storyteller is also a good writer.

So, here’s my advice to my fellow writers, start ghost-writing. Not only will it enhance your writing skills, but it will also generate some cash for your survival. And when you become more polished, it’s never too late to get on your own journey as a writer.

Life isn’t a race. If it were, there would be one starting point for all, but in reality, there isn’t. Some people who see you as competition will try to slow you down, break your spirit, steal your ideas, and challenge your skills. When they do, ask them for the best piece they have ever written and show them the best piece you have written. But before that, focus on your journey of becoming writer form a storyteller.

If I have to make anyone accountable for anything, it has to be no one else but me. I have cut people off from my life like a hot knife cuts through butter. Likewise, I had to end a years-long friendship because we were not sailing in the same boat when it came to working professionally.

In my opinion, it is very important that two people sail in the same boat, or else one of them will fall, or both will sink. I couldn't let that happen to us. I could live with the fact that he'd hate me for the rest of his life rather than be the reason he couldn't grow.

Do I regret ending our friendship? Nope, not at all. The reason is simple—he is making progress in his life, working on several projects, while I have done nothing so far that I could flaunt. If I were asked whether I'd resume my friendship with him, I'd say no, because I am not the same person anymore. I've become bitter and straightforward, and for the questions he'd have for me, I wouldn’t be interested in answering them because it would change nothing. And what never changes becomes an anchor, and I've let go of all the anchors I ever had—even at the price of being shamed for being selfish and self-centred. I take full responsibility for what I have done, and I have no regrets about it.

The best way to keep a secret? Hide it in plain sight. People will never notice what’s right in front of them because they’re too busy chasing what isn’t there. That’s just how our minds work.

I’ll admit, it felt strange—unsettling, even—when everyone suddenly had something to say after a particular loss. Before that, no one seemed to care. In the history of filmmaking, nobody had the faintest idea of what was going on. But the moment that event happened, the noise started. Everyone became so vocal. It caught me off guard. I kept asking myself, How did all these people find their voices overnight?

And then, it started to click. They weren’t reacting to the event out of concern; they were using it. People started pointing fingers, blaming others, but in truth, they were all part of the same group. That realisation hit hard. It was confusing.

And when you’re confused, you have two choices: assume you know the truth, or go looking for it. I chose the second. I started investigating, hoping to piece it all together. But instead of staying detached, I got pulled in—I became part of the mess I was trying to unravel.

Looking back, I think it was necessary. Painful, but necessary. It brought me closer to understanding the truth. Day by day, week by week, month by month, every little thing that happened started to make sense—every motive, every hidden agenda, every play for power.

It’s a strange feeling when it all becomes clear. It’s like waking up from a dream and realising you’ve been lied to your whole life. Their hate? A lie. Their love? A lie. Their arguments, their fights, their criticism—it’s all a lie. And I kept wondering, Why? Why all these lies?

There are plenty of reasons. Some people crave power—they’ll do anything to keep it, even if it means manipulating others. Some aren’t strong enough to hold their positions, so they rely on dirty tricks to stay afloat. And then there’s survival. People will do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means crossing lines that should never be crossed.

In this case, survival meant taking a life. It was heartbreaking. If we, as humans, are supposed to be the pinnacle of creation—whether by nature, God, or evolution—then how are we still behaving like this? We might be more civilised, but deep down, we’re still acting on the same primal instincts we’ve had since the beginning of time. Eliminating others, taking their place—it’s the same story, just dressed up differently now.

It’s a hard truth, and not everyone’s ready to face it. But for me, I’m glad it happened. As painful as it was, it gave me a sense of purpose when I felt like I’d lost my way.

Now, I can say this with certainty: I’m at peace. I truly am. Because I know the truth. And the truth has always been my ally. It always will be. Knowing the truth also means knowing how to share it—how to help others see it for what it is.

Could it have been avoided? Sure. But with power comes responsibility, and sadly, some people abuse that power. They forget what they owe to humanity. Instead, they become inhumane. And in doing so, they create false gods.

Still, I’m at peace. Because I see it for what it is. And I know the truth.

ab' lincoln once said, democracy is of the people, by the people, and for the people. but does it fall into the truth of "the people"? yes, it does—but not in a traditional manner.

but why do the people matter? because they generate cash doing jobs that run a system, the society, and all, and all, and all.

whether it is politics, the entertainment industry, or even a small community, without the cash flow of the people, it just wouldn't work. therefore, they must be given something they can connect with.

and when one lacks talent, the game of manipulation is left as the last option.

i mean, who the hell came up with the "make your passion your profession" shit? that just doesn’t make any sense. i mean, of course, you can make your passion your profession, but it wouldn’t be your passion anymore. the stress you'd have—it will come from the profession aspect of it, not the passion aspect.

now you’re in a position where you cannot have fun with your passion because you’re stressed out by your profession.

if em' had followed his passion, he’d be the head chef of a michelin-starred hotel in france. but is he? nope. based on his ikigai chart, he’s doing what he’s supposed to.

although he’s nowhere close to the definition of success set by the world, what the hell.!!

once zoe said "you gotta do what you gotta do, and i gotta do what i gotta do."

and what i gotta to do is some lazy workout.

“what’s a lazy workout?” you ask.

well, it’s like working out as if you’re favourin' the idea of workin' out.

“that sounds so silly,” you say.

well, what if silly works.

i mean, that’s how it worked for em'.

i remember those days of em' when.....(bufferin')

btw, did you catch em's cameo somewhere, maybe?

anyways, the routine goes,

one push-up.

one pull-up.

one chin-up.

one crunch. (Aye, don’t doubt my style.)

one squat.

one dip.

simple.

em' call it a lazy workout because workin' out feels like a commitment. once you start, missin' even one day feels like cheatin'—and em' can’t live with that burden. plus, who has the time, energy or even motivation? in another word, the lazy workout is a regime for all ems, its slogona goes "to the em'. for the em'. by the em'."

roger.

i'd talk.

i'd talk my heart out, let it all out like a broken dam.

i'd drink, i'd dance, i'd shy if someone hit on me.

i'd smoke, i'd vape, i'd do what no one in this entire world has ever done before, again.

i'll clean the house.

i'd discuss future.

i'd learn the value of "what ifs"

at last, i'd write.

sober.

they say how you spend the first day of the year is how you’ll spend the rest of it. personally, i never believed in such notions, but a recent time-travelling experience got me thinking and challenging my beliefs. so, i came up with a perfect plan for the 1st of january. since it was my first attempt, i had to get it right—there could be no room for missing anything productive or disrespecting the phenomenon of time by wondering, questioning, wishing, dreaming, or regretting.

to start a good day, i needed proper sleep.

at 11 pm, i sipped a strong valerian root tea—mild never works for me, except when it’s alcohol.

i decided to wake up whenever my eyes naturally opened.

i spent some time in bed organising my thoughts. there’s so much to do, and it feels like a curse that i get hungry and tired like everyone else.

you can either smoke weed or have a strong cup of green tea potent enough to make you puke. if you don’t, the level of concentration you can achieve—especially with a basic noise-cancelling plug—is unimaginable. but even then, you can’t ignore the events beyond your control.

i should have listened to my instincts and put my phone on aeroplane mode.

one distraction led to another.

i must work out.

tiredness brings calm. have you ever wondered about those who don’t need music while working out? it’s because an entire orchestra is playing in their minds.

i must organise it all.

when there’s a mountain of tasks, organising only helps if you have the will to execute them.

for today, i had only three goals.

a workout that wasn’t too intense—lest i become tired—or too light, which would leave me dissatisfied.

every second counts.

it’s 8:11 am.

let’s see how it goes from here.

i did some chores, like making breakfast and eating it. yes, at this point, even these minor activities felt like chores. it helps to get your head ready before declaring it a productive day. i need tangible results by the day’s end.

listening to music or watching short videos could be distracting, so i’m saving them for when i’m absolutely drained.

one thing i’ve noticed for a long time: when you’re focused, everything aligns to its purpose—except time. it speeds up. i just know it.

writing and editing have been part of my daily life for as long as i can remember. it had to be done today too.

half the day had gone by, and so far, i had no issues with it.

then, i doubted whether it would all work out.

i sensed fear.

and in fear, i did the only thing i know that works.

it’s a parallel thing, something beyond explanation or understanding. it’s like nature—it just is.

then, i finished the rest of my chores, evaluating everything.

there was no room for argument, only acceptance.

i did it.

maybe not entirely.

but i’d wish for it in some mystical way—with just a minor input from my side—when i could finally be happy.

mtw: business hours.

tfs: fantasy hours.

s: milestone review.

after finishing this shitty writing, i got a handle on typing.

i then switched to the second phase of the plan.

yes, we’re open for business now.

what.!?

that's it. is this all that fuss was about. what about the nighttime.

saving the final hours for the best chase in the history of all time.

stream of consciousness.

so what do you think? how did i do so far?

if i search for more, i think i can locate the lost kid living somewhere in my conscience.

do you hate me now.!? nope. you cannot, that's the beauty of the game.