Let me tell you a secret, she whispered into his ears:
When you’re too young to understand logic, they’ll tell you you’re made of magic.
They’ll tell you that you were born as a curse, or a blessing; they’ll want you to believe that
you were indeed sent to earth with a purpose.
They’ll kiss you on your gentle forehead.
They’ll tell you a story: ‘Once upon a time, there were thunders on a hot summer midnight,
and a beautiful angel wearing a gown till her toes, came and dropped off a basket at our
doorstep. Inside the basket, were you. You, my dear little God’s child.’
They’ll tell you- you are made of magic.
Don’t believe these creationists; they’re the privileged.
But then you’ll turn old enough to wear two pieces of clothing and brush your teeth, and the
story will have a plot twist.
‘You little monster.’
A little older, and the monster will have undergone a genetic mutation and almost become
your mother. Or father.
Or your father’s ex-wife. Or your mother’s brother.
It doesn’t matter; you’re no more just ‘you’.
You’re a variety of people who disappointed the world and were thus reincarnated as your
alter ego.
Don’t be fooled by these realists; they’re just creationists in shrouds.
The best is when you’ll turn old enough to be morphed into a robot.
Your day will start and end by their clock and you’ll have only two pairs of school socks.
They’ll then brainwash you: ‘you are made of biology.’
You have a heart, a brain, nerves.
And you have lungs- which should never be corrupted by nicotine or your monsters will grow
bigger. ‘You have a wrist which you can slit when you feel sad for yourself, but never do it
without adult supervision.’ So they will destroy your insides, replace with it science and
boom- you’ll have a heart that beats and a brain that thinks.
You were never made of magic, they’ll prove.
But don’t you dare let them butcher your reality; they’re just some desperate creationists
who never had a childhood.
And before you know it, you will be old and coughing.
As old as their lies. You’ll be allowed to pick your own undergarments and stay out till no one
molests you. You’ll be free.
Your actions will be preceded with a lecture on you being made of a soul and ‘Satan’ will be the only word you’ll recognize instantly. They’ll dictate your Achilles heel: ‘you’re old enough to make your own decisions. Don’t let this freedom ruin your life, please?’
Suddenly, one summer midnight-when the thunders shall be too harsh to bear-an angel wearing a gown till her toes will come to sweep the maple leaves off your doorstep. She’ll tell you that you are made of atoms, stardust, science and magic alike. She’ll whisper into your ear a secret and you’ll then know, you are made of nothing but your moments.
You’re not made of ash, or mud, or your parents’ money; you are not made of the universe. You’re not made of sunflowers and sunshine, neither of the X’s and Y’s. You are made of your loves, un-loves, losses, founds, and keeps. You are made of the Angus and Julia Stone songs that you play every night. You are made of the Zen comic you shared with ten odd friends at 11 in the morning. You are made of the smell of your farts, the booger in your nose, the tears in your eyes. You are made of her smile, his kiss, their life.
You are made of them, all of them.
She’ll whisper all of this into your ear, trust me, and until then, you’re better dead.
Here.
There’s not much life on earth anyway, unless well
‘Just for 999/-’
Ysk Prerana is an activist-in-making till 12pm and an ice-cream hogging blogger post 12am. Yes, the timings overlap but that’s only because she’s fond of writing ’12’. She’s also fond of balloons and bubbles, and convenient liars.