i sit and write.
about the woman forced into prostitution.
the kashmiri pundits who lost their homes.
the activist who was stoned to death.
the playwright who is not anti-dalit.
the filmmaker who was not selling india.
the filmmaker who is selling spain and is proud.
i have written well. i have greater plans for tomorrow. i could have called it a day.
instead i make myself a drink and let in my demon lover of yore who has been wanting to "catch up" for a while.
the inevitable happens. he catches up.
why. why. why.
can i not be satisfied living lives of others behind the insurance cover of my laptop screen.
why must i have my own?
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