Moral Tales from A Dystopian Future – Chapter IV

Seeing these God damn working-class men bleeding their gut on a hard metal typewriter, you got to give them some respect.
I never liked the poets, though. I tried my hands on romantic poetry. It was shit. Even my romance tasted like pain.

Recap: We meet a narrator in a physiatrist hospital. The narrator is suffering from a delusional disorder. He claims to be a demi-god who has walked the earth since the beginning of time looking for his wife. The narrator seeks forgiveness from his daughter for abandoning her.

The Plagues

Sundays are tough. I am not sure why.

Everyone’s at their lord’s.

The believers are in the house of God and the non-believers in the house of warmth. The house of the lord is cold and damp. There’s sunshine, but quite often, you find yourself just hanging by a thread in pitch dark vastness of uncertainty.

The house of warmth promises life, vitality, rigor, and resistance against all that there is and all that there may.

The house of warmth is a lie. 

I fail to understand why do people cling to broken systems. Yes, broken systems are better than no system, but one must see through the façade.

Socrates saw through the façade, and you poisoned him.

Socrates explained to me the first time how you guys operate. He insisted that the Hammurabi code wasn’t inappropriate. All men are not equal.

There are weak men, and there are strong ones. There are wife-beaters, and there are philanthropists, so no, all men are not born equal.

Or maybe they are, but they get to choose who they become.

Socrates chose to be honest. He paid for his choice. Your forefathers poisoned him.

The house of warmth is a lie. The house of God is tough.

Honestly, with so much talk about God going around, let me tell me, I don’t even like them.

Even they are as self-loathing and incomplete as you guys.

And so am I. I am unquestionably flawed.

We fail to understand all of us, you, me, and the trinity, that we all are inherently flawed, and we are making things as we go.

When the infinite wanted some enjoyment, he demanded (I have to use ‘he’ as a pronoun, because what else will I do, there are no pronouns for the supernatural, and you can’t use ‘it’ as ‘it’ will be disrespectful) that the world be created. And the world was created.

The world had to be filled with wonders and amazement. Therefore the earth was filled with sights of marvel, sounds from the galaxies beyond, and beauty that will dazzle even the creator… And all of that was accidental.

Half of the time, the gods were drunk. They just played and had a little fun.

The project didn’t do well; they shut it down, rebooted, made some changes here and there. Your world and this entire multiverse is nothing but a passion project.

You are nothing but memories.

You are Cable TV for the gods. I am sorry to say this, but then that’s a fact. What do you say to that?

One day by chance, they got it right. Things fell in place, and your world was created. 


You meet someone, and a new relationship begins. It could lead to jobs, wealth, sex, or death… it is all chance.

And even that time, they fucked up.

You guys were meant to evolve, but then dinosaurs happened.

No one had anticipated it. We thought dinosaurs would be flying fiery ants, and they turned out to be ravaging beasts.

So then came the red dragon and another reboot.

And finally came your ancestral cousins—the early man, the neanderthals. Everyone liked them. They were simple brutes. And finally, came the thinking man, you and your kind.

The gods fuck up still. But then again, a broken system is better than no system. If you do not believe in the gods and let things happen the way it is supposed to, what’s the alternative? Fight every moment and delay the apparent outcome.

If you must fight, you will fight. The gods will tell you in your dreams.

Your mind and your body is programmed to do what needs to be done because this is not the first time it is going through these set of events.

All you need to do is be in the moment to observe your lie and embrace your reality.

Oh, this was heavy.

I drifted off again, daughter didn’t I?

I think I am getting old now. Can’t keep track of my thoughts.

Where was I? Yes, Sundays!

Sundays are always lonely for me. I miss your mother’s warm hug in the morning and that stinking kiss of foul morning breath. I hope you find love and it doesn’t destroy you. The kind of love that matters often destroys now, now in the present times.

I hear you are a painter of some sort.

I have always been fond of painters.

Painters create from the chaos. Every stroke creates a beautiful reality that is eternal. That is something only the painters could ever do.

The writers do come close. They are hardworking. 

Did you know the writers are the most hardworking in the entire creative fraternity? They just don’t tire.

When I first met Homer, I told him, writing is the most supreme form of creation. It is above sex. He disagreed.

A few decades later, I got to know Homer got Odyssey credited to himself. Odyssey was my tale. 

I narrated it to folks for centuries straight.

Everyone was mesmerized. It was the most powerful story they had heard. Had someone twisted it a little, we might have another religion to add to our miseries.

Homer was a fraud. But seeing these God damn working-class men bleeding their gut on a hard metal typewriter, you got to give them some respect.

These motherfuckers bled like crazy.

I never liked the poets, though. The poets were fine, the naturists were decent. Loved Blake and Wordsworth. But I always hated those who wrote love sonnets—bloody liars.

I tried my hands on romantic poetry. It was shit.

Even my romance tasted like pain.

Many ladies complained or complimented, depends on your outlook towards life… many ladies said, I taste like pain.

Those writers who bled on their typewriter ended it somehow. I can’t even end it. Curse of immortality!

Hemmingway shot himself. Poor chap!

I was with him till the end. I could have very well pulled the trigger. You know, when the walls were painted with his blood, I just sat there smoking. Blood and chunks of flesh scattered all around while I sat there in an eternal calmness.

The curse of solitude is tormenting.

Searching for your mother was a long wait. 

I met her in the 21 st century.

Though I started looking for her from Day 1, a few centuries later was when things started to get ugly.

I became so desperate that I lost all control.

Even mother Alyssa was not of any help. All she said was, I will meet my beloved in the middle of a plague. There were more than several thousand plagues every century. Mostly I was the only walking one among rotting dead bodies, hoping to find a woman still breathing who will be young enough to be my wife.

Plagues and deaths became my daily life. Wherever there were diseased, I nurtured them, helped them heal but not out of goodness or a sense of duty. I did so to find a woman.

Had mother Alyssa told me that I was the evil cast on this world, I could have very well believed it.

I wish the deaths were the worst part. They weren’t.

I started burning the corpses. Not out of compassion. I burned them, hoping this might please the fire goddess and she will give me a sign.

Nothing ever worked.

And when finally the day I found her, I think I was no longer alive. I felt dead from within.

I mostly felt dead after I witnessed a mother eating her baby in a Gulag. I guess that was when my heart stopped beating.

It revived the second I saw her.

I wish you could witness it and maybe paint it. Capture it in a timeless moment.

So, I hear you are a painter. Are you any good?

Dear daughter, I hope you get to read this someday and forgive this old man for being a terrible father.

Author: Nishant Nishit

Hi, I am Nishant. I am a spiritual degenerate in pursuit of the absolute truth. I am a celibate monk. I prefer reading and writing over talking. Send me a letter someday and we will bond!

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