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.

Moral Tales from A Dystopian Future – Chapter III

Don’t mull on the how’s and why’s and what you know about planetary motion which your half-ass science teacher taught you. All of the science is based on the fact that time is linear, which has never been the case. It took me 7 years to explain this to Einstein. Still, he only comprehended poorly. Nonetheless, the world came to a halt when Muhammad laid eyes on Khadija.

The Lie of the Times

Recap: The narrator who claims to be a god in drag is under psychiatric care. He is writing a journal to his daughter, asking for forgiveness about his shortcomings. 

Chapter III

I loved your mother dearly. I still do. Love of the true kind. The kind that doesn’t exist, or I doubt ever did.

You must have had your share of boys! I always wished to be there, to approve the person you choose. Not that my approval means shit, but I wanted to experience the process with a biological daughter.

You do know that love is a lie. Lord Byron was half drunk with his cock in a whore’s mouth when he yelled, ‘hey, you know what, I will claim that love exists!’ 

Everyone was startled. 

How will you do that, Lord?‘, asked one of the timid girls.

‘I will write. I will make claims. The same way we convinced everyone that God existed.’ 

‘But God does exist. Sir, doesn’t he? Jesus died for our sins.’

‘Yes, God exists, and he wants you to suck my cock.’

And the room echoed with sad laughter.

You understand sad laughter?

It is when you laugh because that’s the only way you can let the pain out. Your tear glands, too, will give up someday. That’s the burden of understanding and witnessing the truth.

Bryon and the fella poets began the romanticism movement, and you and I still believe in the lie.

Talking about love, I can’t stop myself from not telling you about Muhammad and Khadija. Now that’s the love we are talking about.

Alyssa had told me that Muhammad will be a person of great importance. I had a lengthy discussion with Jibril around what all should be revealed to Muhammad and at which intervals. You see, all of this is planned in advance. Your lives are predestined.

At this juncture, you might argue, ‘what about free will, daddy?’

There’s no free will!

The only free will is the fact that you get to choose your reaction to events. If someone dies, either you can cry or be happy about them going to a higher realm. So that’s how free will happens. Free will saves you from personal hell; otherwise, you are supposed to walk the fire.

Didn’t Bukowski quote me, “What matters the most is how well you walk through the fire.”

He did. I am sure.

He was a fine fella. Damn…he stole my heart. Oh! The days of debauchery we spent together. It must have shocked Kato. 

At times I don’t realize who’s who. Maybe brother Kato isn’t evil. I am. Perhaps mother Alyssa lies to both of us. She told me herself, ‘Beware of what a woman says as all she says are lies.’

Damn! That’ some dark ages shit.

When Khadija saw Muhamad for the first time, and their eyes met, the world held still for the next eight seconds. And I don’t mean metaphorically. 

I mean literally. The planet stopped spinning. 

Don’t mull on the how’s and why’s and what you know about planetary motion which your half-ass science teacher taught you. All of the science is based on the fact that time is linear, which has never been the case. It took me 7 years to explain this to Einstein. Still, he only comprehended poorly. Nonetheless, the world came to a halt when Muhammad laid eyes on Khadija.

How should I put it!

Umm… you must have seen those fantasy movies. The guy, the girl, and the setting freeze… then there’s only the guy and the girl moving… in a still frame.

How do you think there are a thousand movies with the same scene. You must understand that whatever has happened keeps on happening every moment, over and over again. We all are trapped in an eternal cycle of time and motion. 

The world is like a book. Whichever page you open, you will only read that page, but every other page does exist, and something is going on. What has happened will happen, and what is going to happen has happened.

The book is complete. You haven’t read it yet.

Because everything is happening at once, you get flashes, visions, dreams. At times, you wander off into a different reality, and you never notice. You sleep in a world, and you wake up in the other. The reality you experience is not the reality. On that note, there is no reality. All you experience is a virtual construct created by the limiting beliefs of your mind. Ideally, you are not even you.

You are two particles bundled up together. One is a god particle, and another the observer particular. Everything else is an experience.

All we need to do is see and say, ‘Wow! That’s interesting.’ Every second of your existence is a miracle. We should all behave like 1-year-olds, filled with wonder and amazement.

But we do not.

We think we are someone, and we have control, wherein all you are is a patch of black ink inside a book. You can’t even change your place. It is all written.

Here’s an advice to all of you on a friendly note. 

Never fight anything. Only observe.

The love of Khadija and Muhammad is the love we should strive for. A perfection! But we are so flawed in our approach. For us, love is ownership.

Now here’s the conundrum. I don’t mind being owned. Your mother was a very passionate woman, and she was also possessive. She couldn’t tolerate me going away for even a moment. Khadija and Muhammad’s true love never had any problems. But those were different times. Now the times have changed. The times they are changing.

Your mother and I had many problems. But it was true love.

How do I know?

Well, after being with countless women, I still had the desire to love. I still was able to be with someone else. But after your mother left me and took you with her, every female became my daughter.

I could only see you and no one else. All I ever wanted was to hold you close to me and let your tiny arms heal my soul.

I realized later on that your mother was not my salvation. You were. You were the one I was looking for—the one who will complete me.

But your mother took you away from me.

And now, when she’s finally gone, freeing me from the promise that I will never reveal who I am to you. 

Now, I can yell, ‘Dear daughter, Daddy’s home.’

But I guess it is too late. You must be 26 years now.

One day, a stranger comes into your dream, claiming he’s your father and asking you to check your mail.

You check your mail, and you see an email from someone named Jupiter Maximus.

You can either choose to download or ignore it.

What will you do, daughter?

And what will happen if you choose to download it because you had a dream about it.

Will you see that it says the document has been classified as untrustworthy because the person is admitted to a psychiatry hospital. If you bounce by that, are you going to entertain a delusional man who claims to be a god in drag?

And won’t you laugh at me when I say you are the daughter of the fire goddess? Your mother was just a vessel.

What would you say to that, dear daughter?

Dear daughter, hope you will read this someday and forgive your father for being a terrible person.