Kafka, Chekhov and guns.

Kafka, Chekhov and guns

He kept the book on a dusty table, and looked up. The sun was on top of his head now, almost blinding his sight but he looked up anyway. He had stayed up all night to finish reading a Murakami book ‘Kafka On The Shore’.

In the book, Murakami brought up the Chekhov’s gun principle which basically meant that once a gun appears in a story, it has to be fired. Chekhov must’ve said it with the perspective of a writer, and Murakami might have brought it up to explain the importance of a certain element of his story. But he, who stayed up all night just to read the book, had not stopped thinking about this theory.

A week ago, his friend had broken up with her boyfriend and she was devastated. So, he spent a long time with her as she cried and cursed and let all of her pain out. He spent a lot of this time consoling her and telling her about how she has to stand up straight and walk again someday. “There is no use in grieving about what has been lost. Grief is important and should never be kept in, but once it has been let out, you have to let go.” He went on to explain how she had to smile and continue writing her story, her life.

She’s fine now. He, however is driving himself crazy on how the Chekhov’s gun theory and the fact that our lives are our stories become one. Everyone has a role. Nothing at all is placed without importance, and there is no bigger mistake than to think you have no place in this world.

He had run away a day ago. His father had hit him, he had seen tears in his mother’s eyes and he didn’t want to be with either of them anymore. He didn’t feel like he fit in, anywhere. So he picked up Kafka, a pair of pajamas and a chocolate bar and left. He had wandered around the block for a while, then went to the park to read the book.

You’re like a gun in Chekhov’s dramatic principle. At one point or another, you will be held, someone’s arms will wrap themselves around you as they pull the trigger. Make sure that someone is you. Everything is like a gun in Chekhov’s dramatic principle. We are all loaded guns waiting for our trigger to be pulled and we have to be very careful.

His eyes watered a bit because of looking at the sun for too long. He got up, took the book and went home.


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A villain who fell in love.

Is this a love story? I don’t know.

I was fourteen when I fell in love. The girl was beautiful. Not ‘eyelashes on point, pink lips and tiny waist’ beautiful, she was ‘fuck you if you think of me as a villain waiting for your opinion’ beautiful.

She barely liked me. Yes, we spoke till four thirty in the morning because she was blabbering on and on about her bucket-list and I liked every dream she had etched onto her paper skin with a pen-edged knife. She liked it, because who doesn’t love talking about themselves? (I know a lot of you don’t, but smile anyway.)

We met every day at school, and I would see her laugh. And no, I wouldn’t think about how pretty she looks as she giggles. Instead, I would laugh with her, cause the joke she had said really was funny.

I was fifteen when she said she liked me. I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t ask her to say it again because there was a small doubt inside of me. A doubt that went ‘what if she changes her mind?’. And so I shushed about it, and we dated.

A little back story: A week before she said any of this, I had texted a girl (her best-friend) who liked me and things did not end pretty. My bad.

We dated for about a week, so it wasn’t really a relationship but I liked her and I wrote poetry for her and that is why I, at least, say that we dated. I wrote her poetry that had crazy rhyme schemes, and terrible grammar because two people who like each other don’t really care about that, do they?

She broke up with me and called it revenge, a very pretty name for a game that is no fun. I had hurt her friend and oh god, how could I? I apologized to her friend, cause in all honesty, I knew that was my bad and she deserved it.

I’ve lied many times after all of this, to the girl I fell in love with when I was fourteen. I’ve called her my muse and I’ve said I still like her.

It’s been two years and I’ve been with other people but something went wrong inside this futile human body or heart of mine. I look at people and I see them wearing masks, tip-toeing their way across the lives of others, throwing grenades and being friendly at the same time. It’s crazy.

I try to like someone, and I feel like I do sometimes, but I end up breaking their heart and making them what I am. A monster. A villain not waiting for your opinion.

I’ve been called a lot of things. Am I all of these things?

Am I a fuckboy? Maybe.


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Inside my head.

What do I think about? Is it love or my family?
Or is it a wonder trip and all-nighters?

I think of rainbow unicorns,
with soft wavy hair like my mother used to have,
and a horn that sharpens as a spiral,
much like my thoughts.
It has eyes like me father’s,
and crooked teeth that remind me,
of my sister.
It’s my family unicorn and it gallops in the sky.
I love them.
It’s not perfect, but it’s beautiful.
Also ironically, real.

I think of Christmas trees,
with a line of golden bells and colorful things
that hold within them,
stories of smiles and tears.
It is green and smells like a new day,
and looks exactly like what I drew it to be,
back in second grade.
I am a pirate and it’s my treasure box.
I love my memories.
It’s not perfect, but it has a star.
Also ironically, the star is from the sky.

I think of hearts on the corner of folded pages,
with red sketched inside of it,
a red that reminds me of my girlfriends stubbornness,
and how she blushes.
The paper is creased but the heart is still complete,
and it reminds me of a very old,
romanticized war.
It is my life’s ‘profile picture’ and I’ve liked it myself.
I love sketching.
It’s not artistic, but it is elegant.
Also ironically, three dimensional and inside my body.


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The war has ended.

“Everybody knows that the war is over. Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” – Sigrid

Day one.

She felt the walls around her collapse, her eyes refused to dry, her lips could not stop quivering, and she was unable to move. So, she sat on the floor, her back against the bathroom door and cried as she read over and over the text her boyfriend’s sister had sent. She felt numb, and in pain at the same time. The tears wouldn’t stop, and she just could not gather enough strength to text back. This wasn’t possible. He wouldn’t leave her like this.

How could he?

They had just spoken an hour ago. He had told her things that he had never said before, and one of those things was that he loved her. And it felt like he meant it. She had believed him and so she had spent the time after, just smiling and thinking of him. The days ahead seemed to be happy, because she thought he would be with her. Now, everything was dark. She did not know what she would do when she could move, and she did not know if she would move. Her heart was beating but she didn’t feel alive.

She closed her eyes and saw him standing near the elevator, a smile on his lips on the day she had first seen him. He was looking at her and had no intention of keeping it a secret. She remembered him walking up to her and telling her that she was beautiful. He made it sound like something she could believe in. And so that day, when she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, she saw that she was. It was a new feeling, and it made her feel warm and loved.

She opened her eyes as the image of his smile burned through the tears, and made the pain unbearable. She read the text again. Was this really it? She knew she would not love any other guy the way she had loved him. She heard his voice, a low whisper of the past, telling her he loved her too. And that made it possible for her to get up. She had to see him. She somehow stood up, and saw the mess she had become in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes wet with black mascara smeared around it.

She started the tap, and water gushed out which she cleaned her face with. Tears still fell as she washed her face. And so she gave up. She closed the tap, and fumbled to open the door. Her hands were shivering, and her veins felt like ice was flowing through them. She put on a jacket even though it was sunny outside. As she walked out, she read the message one last time before she put the phone in her pockets and turned the cold knob on the main door. She knew he had cancer, but no.

“He’s gone.”

Day fifty-six.

She’s okay. She survived. But her old-self did not. She has a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and words that mean nothing. She keeps everyone who loves her at a ‘safe distance’. She is still fighting in a war that had been lost months ago.

“That’s the trouble with humans; we never see when the war has ended.” – Erin Van Vuren


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The one with women.

The number in the first two statistics are true and have been taken from here and here. This is here to spread awareness, and not to degrade or leave out men. Smile everyone! Also, leave a comment telling about what problems any one of you have faced.


One in every six women has been sexually assaulted,
and accused of “asking for it”,
or facing it because men,
(being the beasts that they can sometimes be),
cannot control their desires and should not be blamed for it.

One in every four women has been denied opportunities,
of climbing the gold-coated staircase.
The staircase of power and creative possibilities,
has been reserved for men,
(and at times women who agree to sleep with them).

One in every two women has a horror story,
to tell that will send shivers up your very existence,
for the story monsters are human beings
with pride horns and intentions like a sharp crooked teeth,
and darkness that doesn’t go away with a switch.

One in every one woman has given her all,
so that mankind can be kind,
and the world can be truly called a beautiful place.


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