Judgemental bastard

One of my friends called me

a judgmental bastard.

I smiled in agreement.

If there were a competition

for jumping to conclusions,

I'd probably win it.

Give me half an excuse,

a delayed reply,

an unusual punctuation mark,

and I'll construct an entire

civilization around it.

A missing "goodnight."

becomes abandonment.

A changed tone becomes 

betrayal. A misplaced 

emoji can stir an agitation 

and become a national 

issue for me.

You can be good to bad.

soulmate to suspect,

lovable to character-less 

within minutes. For me,

the evidence hardly matters.

My imagination is perfectly

capable of operating

without it.

Some people wait for 

facts to arrive. Not me.

I prefer to greet them

at the destination.

I mean, why burden 

myself with uncertainty

when I can manufacture

certainty from thin air?

It's a remarkable talent.

being arrogant, haughty,

and self-sabotaging-

narcissistically adorable

but remarkable nonetheless.

And the worst part is,

every now and then, I'm right. 

which is all the encouragement

a bad habit needs to 

become a philosophy.

One successful prediction,

one suspicion vindicated,

and suddenly every irrational 

thought gets tenure.

That's how paranoia earns 

credibility.

So yes, perhaps I am 

judgmental. But look at

the stories I invent about 

people. They're usually far 

more dramatic than the 

people themselves.

They've proper arcs,

better conclusions.

Funny noses, improved faces. 

walking styles synced 

to the tunes of Bhojpuri songs.

And beyond this, if reality 

insists on being ordinary,

surely it can't blame me

for trying to improve the plot. 

at least I tried to add colour 

to some of your lives.

But imagine the audacity of

not thanking me enough for 

being such a humble painter.

But let it pass. 

I'm sure you're not gonna 

go far with such a poor 

sense of gratitude.

Things I imagine when you stopped talking

Maybe your mother found out, 

but she already knew. 

Or maybe your brother found it

through her, and he created 

a ruckus? But it wouldn't be 

this serious, ain't it? 

Or maybe your dad found out 

and locked you in your room.

snatched away your mobile, 

cut your Wi-Fi, and made you 

swear on your mother's life,

to make you stop talking to me.

Well, hell, am I overthinking? 

Maybe I do, but what if that 

sneaky little friend of yours hit it 

off and you fell in his groove? 

Maybe you both are a thing now 

and that's why you withdrew. 

But you wouldn't stoop so low, 

would you? It feels like a stretch

to assume something like that.

but I can't stop thinking about 

the possibilities. 

What about that toxic BFF of 

yours? Did she spew any venom 

against me? Or your therapist 

warned you against staying close 

to me because you got 

daddy issues? Maybe yes. 

Maybe no. 

And that makes me come to 

the last option, which is the 

never-ending mess that is me. 

I look deep within myself to see 

if I was the problem all along. 

It's a scare to be honest.

But maybe that's the simplest 

explanation. Maybe I was not 

a safe harbour and you had 

to sail your ship. 

But I have a duty to protect 

myself too. So I pack my 

obsession to find closure.

sink in all the reasons and 

justifications beneath the sea,

to take deep breaths that

are seasoned in sadness.

Ohh how wonderful it is to

stare at the setting sun. 

The sunset from an empty harbour 

was always a spectacle, I guess. 

Maybe somewhere you are 

doing the same, I guess.

Maybe you're more relieved.

Or maybe you're heartbroken.

Or perhaps you're too busy 

deciding what to order for dinner.

I wouldn't know. 

Maybe I wouldn't want to 

know this time. 

Maybe that's closure, or maybe 

One doesn't actually find it.

But in the process, maybe one 

simply grows tired of carrying 

questions that refuse to 

become answers.