Unsettling Realities
You know, there was a possibility that I would've finished my story by now. And by “by now” I mean: 26th July. The deadline of this competition. At least, I am writing now, so I guess the possibility still lingers. Maybe I'll get something, anything done.
It's not like I don't have a plot in my head. I have toyed with several ideas. A dying girl in Gaza; a Bangladeshi boy who dies in a plane crash on the way to his Canadian lover; a teenage drug-addict who finds uncanny resemblances between a dealer and her deceased grandfather. Different stories focusing on the possibilities of what could be. All of them ended up pretty badly. Cancelled.
Empty-handed, I am forced to think, what is the reason for my sadness? Every plot I come up with has a sad ending. Why is that? Maybe I am messed up inside. Reality flows through my head and fills me with feelings I would rather ignore. Gaza, Syria, Ukraine. Macabre situations.
In my own country, people fight over silly football matches and die. Horribly stupid incidents. I can't choose a team. Neither in football, nor in war. They talk big about religion, politics, patriotism, the greater good; and the fact that I don't understand any of this increases my worry. Sometimes I wonder: what if India and Pakistan declare war? What will happen to my country? How many people will die taking sides? What will happen to me if some fellow abducts me for not choosing a side that goes against humanity? Whose side will my people take, and what good will it do to me? All they seem to be doing is taking sides. Then they post and repost on social media, repeatedly. Oh, how productive!
I don't know. Anything can happen nowadays. There are so many possibilities. The inundating realities or its modified versions make me realize one simple truth: I don't matter. Neither do the people. Everything is one big plot of something that we'll probably never get to know. Maybe we'll keep doing what we do best – taking sides, loving without reason, fighting over stupid reasons, dying like cockroaches. Meaningful life, meaningless death. Can anyone fault my stories for having sad endings? Life is like that!
If I don't matter, then what I write doesn't matter either. Then whether I win this competition or not is irrelevant to my existence, which in itself is meaningless. If I don't matter, what does? I'll stop writing and go watch “Hirok Rajar Deshey” again. Get my fill of it. While I exist. Because, as you and I both know, anything can happen nowadays.
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