Someone gifted me a new pen, a blue one which writes really well, if used well.
And now, over and over again, I wonder what I write.
If I write about the nation, they would not like it.
Because my truth differs from theirs, their truth which is fed to them like cow’s feed, bred in a controlled condition, followed by self-made religious, spiritual, and national proclamations.
If I write about the all-mighty God, they will kill me, and no one will know.
And I do not want to get killed, not right now at least.
So I still wonder what I write about.
I will close my eyes and think, the last time I did so, I wrote a two-page essay.
Yes, so I closed my eyes and thought.
They saw me doing that-said I was high or mad.
But this is what I usually do
To write about what I think may be true.
So I will just take my new pen and write about my cat.
My dear cat who does not know what government is, and mews at the idea of nationalism.
She does not wag her tail to everything they say, no, not at all.
She sees, senses, licks her paws, and ignores everything they say; thus becoming my source of inspiration.
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