My Characters, You and Me.

Perhaps, my characters think I am
a non-judgemental,
always listening,
never suggesting,
therapist-esque presence.
So they pour their heart out to me.
They love unconditionally, hate extensively;
mourn perpetually, fuck desperately;
cheat occasionally, hurt seldomly;
laugh silently, cry loudly;
live sadly and decay quickly.
My characters, you see, are
stones in temples and bones in mosques.
They are the stench of
leather in glass buildings
and the essence of ittar in the brothels.
They are withering sandcastles on a private beach
and resistant mud toys of the ghettos.
They are photos in neatly fostered albums
and flashes in amnesiac minds.
They are places in memories of the past
and ruins longing for a better future.
My characters, you know, are
lovers who left too early and
strangers who stayed for a long time.
They are often the right people
in the wrong beds.
My characters are quaint women in castles
and charred men on the road.
They are debased subjects of a
meaner grand scheme.
My characters are distant souls
living jointly in a condominium
and families among the orphans.
They are hopeful people
in a hopeless trajectory.
My characters are in Humans you see
and Inhumans you don’t.
They are timid ghosts in
formidable human bodies.
You see, they think I don’t reveal
them out in my diary.
And that’s where my characters go wrong.
And that’s where people go wrong.
Because my characters are people,
they are you and they are me.
And they are as much as yours
as they are mine
They are, indeed, as much as yours
as they are mine.

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