Through the Red lens

Literal Pitstop 

Sometimes.

I wish to beat dad.

He is too good in chess.

I wish to kill myself.

She talks too much.

I wish to be a dead star.

Then pour down as wish star.

I wish for everything.

Unlike Lenka, of course, not all at once.

Sometimes.

I wish for oblivion.

Only then I could equate infinity.

I wish to be abducted.

The only time when someone will open doors for me.

I wish to be sold.

Only then my worth will be a headline.

I wish to be ugly.

And freely criticize the chauvinistic society.

Sometimes.

I wish, I was Osama-bin-laden.

Pop-up into reality, consistently and ostentatiously.

I wish, I was Hitler.

Jot the remaining of my life in confinement.

I wish, I was Raavan.

The man with the might of a mountain and also patience as one.

I wish I was Gandhi.

Just to explain why I included him on the list.

Sometimes.

I wish to be a thief.

Be a living example of ‘Hindrances of being a Robin Hood.’

I wish to be a junkie.

Learn to hide in clearest sight.

I wish to be a rapist.

Maintain the secularity in the riots.

I wish to be the dark Messiah himself.

Publish an autobiography.

Always.

I wish not to be me.

The one who,

belligerently,

Constantly,

blatantly,

only,

wishes


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