Originality is an illusion
Almost impossible
In this world where experience
Is something everybody meets and greets
Like an author whose work is more popular
Than the names of Uranus’s moons
Like that everyday travel buddy
Whose life to you has been a 24/7 open book
Because you do nothing but listen to her stories

Originality is an illusion
Almost impossible
In this world where style
Is a choice and choice is what everyone makes
And choice comes from options
Which means forever having that possibility
That someone else picks the same one as yours

Originality is an illusion
Almost impossible
In this world where television
Is a regular thing
And people sit in front of it
Day and night
Longer than the time
A mother spends to watch her baby sleep,
Watching the same things over and over again
With or without them knowing it

Originality is an illusion
Almost impossible
In this world where music is universal
And music artists are distinct and indistinct
At the same time
Like melodies or lyrics you think you’ve heard somewhere
It’s natural

It’s natural that even mistakes
are never original
You repeat them a hundred times over
Despite knowing repercussions,
Yes despite suffering repercussions

Your story
If you haven’t written it,
Somebody else has written it for you
Maybe he or she is from across the planet
Or just the one sitting beside you on your couch
A good old friend
Or a complete stranger
Your story
It’s never original
Somebody else has had it
A better or a worse story
And you
Must have also written stories
Of someone you haven’t met
Or of someone you will spend the rest of your life with

It’s not at all bad
This impossibility reminds us
How miraculous minds are,
How mysterious this life is,
And Why for the nth time you read your favorite book,
You still find yourself falling in love

Forget Perfect Endings

UntitledThe fairies have a word for you. They want you to not believe. They want you to wake up. Despite their tales’ command of poignant mysticism or of enduring magic or of a promised forever, the fairies trust that you would discover bewitchment and hypnotism cast upon you and your desires; that you would recognize you are being forced to live in a world so idealistic that wishes are never overly ambitious and that goodness is always the reward for the good. The child in you wishing to be rescued from distress or be the savior of love is well clouded by the dust of fantasy that the words “once upon a time are louder than the beating of your own heart.

Do you claim love as true when the only reason for saving is beauty? Do you claim victory after a dragon’s defeat? Do you always await a prize at the top of the tower?

Forever is the end. It is when everything has come to a perfect conclusion. Hostility dies. Evils lose. Sinners repent. Every corner glimmers and celebrates. Every corner is peace and hope and justice.  No darkness enters before the languor of festivity. Yet remember, this is the end.

Does faith remain? Does magic continue? I tell you, Yes, if you forget perfect endings.

Perfect endings mean not a need for change, thus no variation. Perfect endings mean not a need for battles, thus no reason to be strong for. Perfect endings mean not a need for sacrifice, thus no greater measure of love. Perfect endings deny all possibilities of growth, of seeking, of fighting, of forgiving, trapping you in a make-believe reality that everything is impeccable. If ending has but no fault, nothing can be more worthless.

If ending is perfect and therefore divorced from any form of negativity, you find no meaning, no sense of trust, no anticipation. You have taken away your humanity and embraced governance of enchantment ever after.

Perfect endings do not guarantee happy endings. Sometimes–most of the time–flawed endings and flawed souls are happier, even than gratitude is.


If this were an archetype, it would’ve been excusable. Sadly, it never is. No intelligent justification can suffice my demand for answer. Any valid argument sure cancels itself. A recurring crap that this is has never been known to be embedded into the ever-logical psyche of humanity, even if it often is unfathomable. Now is it about time for Literature to unwrite all its conventions? I don’t seek response from a literary fool.