Dear Brother,

You know I was always afraid to answer a call. It's not that you managed to race me to the rotary phone. I let you believe that, slowing down on purpose.

Now that you're gone, I stand here laughing through my tears, remembering the tomfoolery. Growing up with you, my younger brother, was the best childhood anyone could have. Yes, we did fight a lot and snickered when the other got chastised by dad, or mom. But I wouldn't have had it any other way. Ever.

Brother, you always raced ahead, like the Virar fast local, even as I lagged behind like an all-stops train. It was also why I stand here today. The fateful night of 1st Jan.

The world was getting ready to ring in the new year when the other ring startled us-- the phone ring. While rest of the family slept, I awoke and, somehow, answered the phone. That was the last I, or anyone else, heard from you.

When the police called the next morning, I could sense the rising dread on dad's face. The journey to the station where we found your mortal remains was punctuated with sudden gasps of breath, a lot of praying, and forcing ourselves to stay positive.

You had fallen off a train, they said, although that was never confirmed. Far more sinister causes came to mind. None could bring you back. What was confirmed, for sure, was the fact that we had a gaping hole now. In our family and in our hearts.

This morning, mum called, and I dragged my feet to the phone. I knew why she had called, and as always, I was afraid to answer it.

Rest in peace.

My brother's ghost watches over us, aware of the death we all fear. We witnessed towering fires fueled by hate, the broken bodies of men—some dead, others grieving—and faced death with a smile. We fought as brothers, not for glory or anger, but as lost boys seeking meaning in this life. I count on him still, to remind me of the tasks ahead; his ghostly presence grips my grief.

He succumbed to a silent death in his sleep, only hours after we talked about a vacation. He led an adventurous life, surrounded by loved ones and making friends wherever he went. His absence leaves a void, but his legacy of joy, exploration, and connection will always be with us.

As I sit here typing this I've paused my reading of a very famous novel penned by one, Bram Stoker. I can't focus on that Gothic tome until I express certain feelings that are overwhelming me.

How do you express something that you can't put into words? This very night I revisited a Christian rock opera that was a much beloved part of my childhood. I came away from feeling... odd. It was wonderful to revisit it via YouTube but I can't describe the feeling it left me with very well.

This isn't the first time this has happened to me lately.

The further ahead to my future I look the further back I desire to go! It's like nostalgia but as if the nostalgia is causing me to grieve. I'm a penini in a sandwich press. I'm not sure what I'm feeling or how to process it. For now I can only choke it down and resume my reading.

My apologies. This not the normal type of thing I construct from my words but the anonymity of my username helps. Farewell for now__The Author.

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.

Now your average fellow might panic, throw something and perhaps call the cops. You might ask a question like “who are you?” “what are you doing here?”. Taiki and I stood there, Shrek stood there, we stared at him, him at us and with no time to think a woman stormed onto the set cutting through the air, her voice sharp, screaming at her boyfriend right into the car. The screams migrated with her. The mushrooms were hitting hard, there really isn't much time to think in a situation like this, you just observe because Shrek is a man of peace and onions. A hero celebrated among generations, if anything we were safe in his presence. We might have to worry about the paparazzi though, once they find out the husband of the princess is my backyard. I’d probably have to move, change my address. Would my mailbox overflow with fan mail? Love letters? Hate mail? The screaming continued and the affluent movie star was actually enjoying the argument it seemed, like he was tired of entertaining. His posture, subtle but relieved, like the chaos isn't pointed at him for once, it was out of his manage. Shrek was off duty. For now, he is a person, and under that mask? A hero, a story of love. He looked at me. And at that moment I couldn’t help but wonder if this Shrek, the Shrek in my backyard, wearing the face of a hero, was tired of being the hero. This Shrek seemed dulled from too many wars. The look he gave me, the look of defeat, like he was the one getting yelled at, it drapes over my spine. Shrek, an empath, soaking in the sadness of the world around him, and I felt as if that night, I were to open my phone and read “Shrek Dead” on instagram, a nation at unrest. Out of nowhere, after a secret signal the hero removes his mask deliberately exposing his identity. And there he was: a boy. No older than 25. Curly hair, glasses, a plaid shirt that looked a size too big for him. I can’t really describe the face, but he was average. Completely ordinary. Shrek? This is shrek? A curly haired man in glasses and a plaid shirt, has this always been Shrek? We stood there, frozen. I wanted to say something to taiki, to myself, to shrek. What was there to say? The green mask lay limp in his hand, staring at me. Mocking me, this was not the Shrek I grew up with, the unmasked stranger probably worked at the grocery store around the corner. This in fact was a boy who put on a Shrek mask and walked into my backyard.

This virtual paper is my void and I shall speak being into it, for all good stories start off, "In the beginning there was nothing." This blank white nothing is my void and so I shall scream into it!

I will shout shout let it all out because these are the things I can do without! I will scream for every abused, molested, and forgotten child and malnourished animal. I will scream at the piss ants who decry the action of the Nazi Party only to don their glittering, tinfoil chapeaus and blame the Jews for every conspiracy real and imagined just like the Nazis did.

I will scream at the abusive, alcoholic husband, and the contemptuous shrew wives. I will scream at every Pastor that's eloquently fleeced his flock as he served himself rather than God. A great cry shall go up from my throat that I am more sinner than Saint.

I will scream at every hypocrite and charlatan, every evil bastard that drains life from others. I look towards the chasm created by the circus we call politics and scream something I know will fall on deaf ears: An eagle needs both wings to fly!

I will always scream at Adam, Eve, and their malcontent vagabond of a son Cane for wrecking Earth to start with. I scream at my own body for feeling like a ran own prison I can't ever escape from.

And I will scream because of the five years I spent languishing in a purgatory caught between a bickering married couple that I once called Mom and Dad. Scream that I felt trapped and that no one not even God Himself gave to craps and that I almost extinguished the life I felt added up to a less tha Zero sum. I will scream at the baggage that long five years left me with.

I've screamed until my spiritual throat is raw, it's blood splashed upon this digital paper. Now I conclude my act not with a shout but a minute whisper....

Big toe

Gotta keep it jagged and ready to burst

Early on in life grind it down from the top layer without actually cutting it, builds character

Sure it may seem something odd to have to purple puss toes with their own horns

that,hould they need to be used in combat will no doubt filet anything born of this world

But then are riddled useless since it's really more of a kamikaze type of situation when deal with these types of podiatrinsic warfare