Blue Branches, Red Leaves

I was born in a world where old, withered flowers that have for years rested within the pages of old books are cherished, and the same world it is, where sagging breasts are not considered lovely.
 
I was born in a world where art is a helpless victim of religion. Where writers and artists have been murdered because they dared to break through the confines of social barriers and set their minds free from religious shackles.
 
I was born to a family where lifeless clay idols are offered food on a daily basis, but starving stray dogs are kept away from our garden. I have not for once seen a dog eat away flowers from branches, but I have seen my mother, every day, chanting the name of God while plucking newborn flowers.
 
In the world where I was born, there are people who detest the use of expletives. But I have seen the same people lose their outwardly decorated minds and coat their tongues with profanity.
 
During my early lessons at home, I was taught to respect my elders, no matter what. But secretly from my study, I have witnessed at many occasions, my father turn choleric at our old housemaid for mopping the floor when he’s at home, just because he’d find it disturbing to walk around during those few minutes.
 
I was born in a world where we were taught that trees are green; that the sky is blue. And that is not the world I feel I belong to. Which is why, I doubt the reality of it all. What if this world, the existence of everything around us is just an illusion so vivid that they have grown into stories in our minds? What if every one else is just a character we have birthed for our own stories?
 
And so I say that just because my eyes are accustomed to the green of leaves, I don’t want to believe anymore that trees are green. This world has taught me too much, and never given me enough room to connect the dots on my own. I long to see blue branches give life to blood red leaves. And in that world, there’d be no people who’d call even the ugliest flower wild.
 
Everything that is real, holds your mind back to what it wants you to think about it. So I don’t believe stars are real, for had they been so, you wouldn’t have gazed upon them for hours only to find yourself sent away to wherever you longed to be.
 
The water in my world is magenta, and every fish underneath is a part of my own self, each so tender that I have hidden them far from the deadly eyes of the world above. Sometimes when I detach from all the unproved realities and dive into the waters, I see fragments of my own self thriving in the safety of the undisturbed beneath. And it is they who make me write what I want to write.
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