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.