Young Writers Society

The greatest of the sinners in vilest of the religions i.e. all of the religions; have been prosecuted in the name of the preservation of mankind, mankind has made it impossible for other-kind to live a life free of the charges of preconceived scars on the useless carvings of the society. Han, the boy, the river too maybe, wants to cut through the deepest of the soiled layers of men, the disgust for a kind can make the other cross certain ethical and cultural moral horizons, but Han thinks setting of the sun and burning of the plagued city, and maybe life too, trapped in the holes of the patriarchal net is extremely important to free the desires very much natural but then again natural is dangerous too.

I never intended Han to go so far left but he will be preaching the necessity of the abolition of love soon, based on the unsatiable nature of expectations in a relationship and also the incompleteness of the language leading imaginative limitations, though right now Han is very much in love with a man of unapproachable stature, maybe the flexibility of the language will help us here, as Han will definitely get together with that man sooner than he realises that men, all cis-gendered men - by performative directions he himself too - are utter garbage, with just one good quality under current global circumstances that at least they are all biodegradable.

I have always been coming alive creatively for the nightlife, the ideal night flight where the lovers have had no fight and heteronormativity was a sin, there is always hot love stirring in between the lines through which I write about Han and the man, something about the later moves the former and causes a grand illusion but then Han's rampant psyche neglects grand narratives, he's there for too many sections to be put into overarching lines talking about some ideal. Han's reality was never enough, as of right now, Han is just sitting on the chair his grandmother uses to sit on and wait for her grandchildren to return from schools, she was married before that French philosopher told the world how schools and the all the systems of the test are new imperialistic authorities and also how while we assign the author we do delude ourselves with the authority of the author too. Han sits and with a low sigh to be ignored by his relatives, he looks at the screen of his year-old phone, not enough to admire the latest pictures of the unapproachable, managed yet unpredictable man, with a light brown vest on a white shirt with sleeves folded till the very curves of alluring biceps, with a grin and Adonic features, the man is a sore in the eyes of the kind which is there to hate for the reason of hating.

There might be some readers thinking about a certain man they themselves have seen in such a specific situation and got held for a moment in the illusion of eye contact through the screen, that was my motive in a sense but Han's man is an unimaginable experience, I with my limited capabilities of the language tried to draw him out in ambiguity, Han looks at the pictures and through the waves of hairspray he can map the next few days of himself admiring the montages while trying to convince himself that one day, soon enough there will be a chance for him to remove the strands of hair from the man's head and whisper 'my ethereal love' in between the camera clicks.

Break.

I was named Han by someone I don't remember, it's been ages since that happened, nobody in my house knows about this but I lost the memories of my older names while staring at a person, a man, through the pixelated screens, through the dreamy horizons and through some very sensual moves of light and I don't know what else, maybe wood, maybe rings, well as the author told before, they write about me through their libidinal trance, was this what they said? Well, I will derive this, my reading is always sexual, is it? Well, you cannot come into my linguistic borders to criticise me, or are you already here? I really see nothing but the man I fell for, he's too perfect for me, reciting his name like a mantra, a sutra to manifest a utopian future, I think that American theorist's line about anticipating to manifest must work here as it does on gendered and other identities and also ideologies like nationalism and patriotism, this is a derivation of the author and their friend which I accept completely.

I remember someone telling me to paint my love like one of those French men, I never liked such statements, such euro-centric standards can never express my desires and neither can they encompass the profound impact just one image of that man has on me, a sudden rush of something blissful, sometimes a little warmth on the face and sometimes head-splitting pain of the distance, of the never-ending cycle of going into daydreams, imaginative reality, a little escape, a little fun, a little party for he and I meet like this, in between the traps of realities, enjoying a moment or two of merging space-time fabric and him modelling in those curves of fabrics to make me realise my own worth, my own eyes, same to his, shine for the bees under the sunlight, shades of brown so similar that we often forget which eyes are their and what is there to see.

Timebomb

Han is a great saint, he loves and loves and prays to love as he has no gods to believe in, then there is the author too, who is complicated for me to comment on as you must be aware of the fact that there is no way to know that what I am narrating and is being written is not coming from their mind, well at least the way that I am here in these words must make you trust me in a way, as you see these long sentences sometimes digress and lead us where we were never expecting to go, but well, here we are, so, yeah, you should trust these words, but I am aware of the fact that you will always question the narrator coming out of the brown, I just had to comment on the upcoming parts, well, the author is a tired person.

Legend

Again, after long nights of rest and still burning eyes, I am here to write about Han and the man, I saw the man practising his art of floating around the studio and dancing like he was a god, a powerful being ready to burst out and create a world by just one tap of his foot on that polished floor in front of the wall of mirrors. I prefer shorter sentences, you see my thoughts break a lot. Han is in a position to choose between going to that foreign land as a transfer student and staying back for his economy is not that great and being in the same country never helped lovers like him and the man. The man, too famous, too ready run a thousand miles, to get to Han, to hold him and whisper what he said in that dream, "don't move, no, I am not calling the police, please, don't fade away, stay, a little longer, please, just look at me". But the barrier, the language, out of habit he never realised that the boy doesn't know the language of his love, and the boy faded away as he came, so he started preparing for the next encounter. Spending his days locked in a haze, reading, reciting, and learning the common language of his love and now history, the Raj.

Break

I saw him next time in that room, white, shining, with polished floor and walls of mirrors, but how did I get here again? Last time I am sure he was calling for the guards, he marked me, his hold was so tight on my hand, was it fear or an imploring gesture I will never know, but he marked me, I felt those fingerprints ghost there and later sink deep into my skin to flow with the blood and get a hold of my whole body, maybe that pulled me here again, oh, he can see me, and so can his friends, but they are not saying anything, oh no, here I go.

I need to find a way to stay but also to run away at will, that man is too precious to be stared at like this.

World

He was here again, that boy, that brown-eyed, black-haired, tanned angel, how, just how can I get a hold of him again? He smelled of sandalwood and honey, but how? I never let him in my room, we never let him in the studio and he fades away, they saw it too, he, him, the boy, the mysterious boy with lined eyes, this time they were lined, I just want to hold him again, I wish he never got up from his sleep that night, I never slept with such comfort again.