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I came into this world screaming. And every day has been nothing but a war ever since. I often feel the blood seeping— From my mother’s hands, Into the soil, on my clothes, and in the meat they ask me to mince. They drop grenades every day, “Smile a little more” is the most common, And I think they like leading my resolve astray, Muffling my mother’s voice As they label my becoming an omen. The fires stretch along the horizon, The smoke fills my lungs. When I hand them the cauldron, My mother’s voice, A bell that rung. Sometimes I trace my calloused hands, As I peek out at the open sky. I think of a possibility— Where I’m in the stands, And I hear my mother when she says, “To try.”

I grab a handful of clay in my hand, and set it on the spinning wheel. I mold it into a lump, smoothing the bumps, and carefully shape a cylindrical vessel. I caress it with delicacy, using all the tools and tassels. Shaping it with my fingers, I smooth over the edges. The temperature is right, the sun is bright— I place the pot in the furnace. Hours pass by. I pull out my masterpiece, and watch it crumble, piece by piece.

Before anyone says ‘I told you so,’ I want to clarify one thing. I did not, in any form, expect this to happen. And how could I? Unlike Janus, I cannot look into the future. Everything I know about are sweet things. Like flowers, ribbons, rainbows, puppies, and… and a lot of things. So I don’t know how to explain to Jupiter that the most amazing, gorgeous, flabbergasting  Goddess of Love might’ve innocently, unknowingly, accidentally , caused another  mortal to die. So much has happened that I don’t know where to start. It’s such a sad tale, a very tragic one, and brutally long. So my dear hopeless lover, go get yourself a nice cup of * ambrosia  or whatever is in the latest trends today, because we’re about to listen to the best story of your little life. If my memory serves me right, it was around six months ago– when I first saw her. She had brown hair and skin that shone golden underneath the Sun. Her brown eyes were one of a kind. I’ve seen and created all kinds of beauty there is to see, yet she still amazed me. Mars was busy that day, and I was really, really bored. So I made the stupidest decision there is— I took a human form and went out venturing in the mortal lands. I’ll not lie to you * liberi, you people have accomplished so much! Creating those little boxes to call each other around the globe? We usually get Arcus to do that, but it’s commendable really. Anyways, what was I saying? Yes, I took my human form. I must have looked decent enough in the blonde hair-blue eyed combo with the pink shrug, top, skirt combo (I saw it in a movie!) because when she saw me– I swear she couldn’t stop looking away. One thing led to another and there I was, sharing a mortal’s bed, again . But it didn’t feel wrong. I didn’t have my normal ‘God-complex’ or whatever they say when I was with her. She said her name was Ryla. And by the stars, if i could chart another constellation just for her, I would’ve. And if I could paint the skies in the colour of her lips and smell and touch, I would’ve. But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t feel strong enough for her. Not because of the hold she had on me. Not because of the Moon and heaven and the Olympus. But simply because she was a magnificent and radiant being, and I? I was just a mere goddess. I feel so stupid, looking back at all of this. I should’ve noticed the signs. I should’ve noticed when her fingers trembled when it was intertwined with mine. I should’ve noticed the light fading out of the brown forest in her eyes. I should’ve noticed her soul getting weary. I should’ve noticed them all. But I didn’t. How could I, when every moment with her felt like the first bloom of spring? I brushed it off thinking it was a mortal thing— that it too shall pass. And yet, in the quiet hours when she thought I wasn’t watching, I saw her look at me with emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel. Fear… and love. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised when she asked me very mortal  things. Things like, “What would it take, Venus? For me to be yours—completely?,” I laughed, brushing it off as a fleeting thought. “You already are, my love.” But her eyes burned with something darker, something I hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t asking for affection; she was asking for power. A way to stand beside me, not beneath me. I tried to warn her. Oh, gods, I tried. But mortals, you see, have this stubbornness. A fire that burns them alive before they can even feel the heat. And I am a lot of things, but I’ve never been the water to someone thirsty. When it happened, it was like the Earth itself held its breath. I felt it—the rupture in the air, the weight of something ancient and unforgiving pressing down on us. She stood at the center of it all, her arms outstretched, her voice trembling with a prayer she should never have spoken. I called her name, over and over, running toward her, but the light around her grew too bright, too violent, until it swallowed her whole. By the time I reached her, it was over. She lay there, impossibly still, her lips curved in the faintest shadow of my name. I fell to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I touched her face, her hair—still soft, still hers, even in death. I wanted to scream, to tear apart the heavens for taking her from me. But all I could do was hold her and whisper a thousand apologies into the cold, unyielding silence. My hands, the same ones that wove roses and bound lovers together, were stained with the remnants of her life. And for the first time in millennia, I understood the cruelty of my gift. Love does not heal. Love does not save. Love devours. So here I am, dear hopeless lover, sitting among the stars and cradling the weight of my own foolish heart. I will tell Jupiter. I will stand before the council of gods and confess my crime: that I loved too much, too deeply, too recklessly. And when they punish me—because they will—I will not fight back. But even then, even as I bear their judgment, I will hold this truth close: that I would do it all again, just to feel the light of her eyes one last time.  Little lover, you’re allowed to be mad at me. I promised you that this would be the best story of your life, but it didn’t end in the way you quite hoped. That’s the way of life, my * meraki,  even the gods don’t know how or where our fates will lead us. I hope you’re done with your cup of ambrosia or coffee or whatever, if you’d want, next time I promise to tell you a happier tale. But remember, even I wouldn’t know how the story would end, and I’m a literal goddess.   I adprehendet vos per somnia *ambrosia: or nectar, is supposedly the drink that gods used to intake *liberi: latin word for children *Meraki: greek word for creation * i adprehendet vos per somnia : I will find you in your dreams

To: goddessofcreation@myth.in Cc: cosmos@noreligion.com Subject: Was It Worth This? Dear Thesis, I'm sick of this world. I'm sick of the humans that reside in it. I'm sick of all the negativity in here. But I cannot complain. I'm the one who made them this way. I'm the one who wanted them to be flawed, to be imperfect. Because if they were perfect, would they be human? But then again, I could not create a perfect being even if I wished to. I'm not perfect myself. Then how can I create perfection? I can only strive for it. And I hate it. I hate all the hatred they’ve spread. The discriminations based on the amount of melanin in your skin, the fate that they did not choose, their sins they did not commit but have to salvage for. The burning lines between people and insecure people. The boundary between personal spaces and individuality and creativity and nature and earth and even heaven. Humans have ruined it all. They’ve gone in the complete opposite direction of which they’re supposed to embark. They harass, they kill, they rape their own. They’re more predatory than the predators we created. All of this because they’ve the ability to communicate. The ability to speak to each other. But then again, isn't that with all different creatures we made, Thesis?  We made them. And we cannot stop them. For they’re their own doom, even the fates don’t have enough yarn for this in their room. I’ve always wondered, my sweet meraki, if we were to start another age like this. To end humans and let other species prevail. Those great reptiles that humans call Dinosaurs went through the same cycle. They killed their own, but not on will. They kill to survive. So do all our other creations. Except humans. They kill for entertainment. They kill to assert dominance in domains they shouldn't be in. They speak in situations they shouldn't even be in. They have opinions about bodies that aren’t theirs, land that isn’t theirs. Recently, I learnt that humans are fighting against themselves. They’ve created continents, which are separated by the oceans. They’ve created countries, their own languages, their own cultures. They even have religions to worship different forms of me. It all seems beautiful to hear, doesn’t it? I felt the same when the messenger informed me of all this. But they have so much anger. So much anger about things they don’t even comprehend. They hate each other because of their country? It’s baffling, because out of all their divisions on this planet, this one doesn’t even make sense. Hate due to language? Language is just a medium. The birds we created and the fishes we made— they don’t even have words. Yet they seem to understand each other. And the topic that baffles me the most, religion. They call it faith. Faith in who? In us. In me. They’ve spun different stories about their existence and mine, and the truth is, it’s not wrong. They believe there is a ‘God’ above who will grant all their wishes and punish all the sins. How will they ever know that I am nothing but everything at the same time? I am a fragment of their imaginations. I am them. I am the cosmos. For I created them, and they created me.  So I let it be. All of it. Everyone brings their own doom. We brought ours when we ended the Cretaceous period. If there is one thing that nobody— and absolutely nobody can escape from, its karma. They call me God, but I too am helpless when it comes to karma. My greatest meraki, Thesis, I am so very tired. To be punished and rewarded for things humans do. I just hope, sincerely sincerely hope, that one day, humans, our birds, our fishes, the earth and the sky and the heaven— all of it gets back to the cosmos. For it began there, and will meet its end over there. PS: I hope the Vedas and the Olympians are visiting for Christmas break? I’d love to share all the tales Muhammad told me. Charting sidera in aeternum, Cosmos

It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2 PM. I was walking through the streets just like any day. I greeted the tea seller and bought a samosa for myself. I was walking through the streets just like any day. The oddity walked towards me, but I didn’t think much of it. Not until he grabbed my wrist, Or snatched my bag. Not until he held my breath with his two hands. It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2:30 PM. I laid in the soil, And felt my eyes water up. I waited for my soul to return to me, But all I could see, Were the torn up pieces of, My red chiffon kurti.

The first time I held my daughter, I knew we weren’t going to get along. Don’t get me wrong—she’s a very sweet child. She looks adorable, speaks adorably, and is kind to everyone. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to like her, to care for her, to adore her… to love her. I must be a terrible mother. I’ve never once in my life looked at her with affection. I’ve never wanted to kiss her on her cheeks. I’ve never bothered with her education, either. She’s always been on her own. And honestly, as bad as this may sound, I genuinely don’t care about her. I thought it was normal at first—to be so detached from your kid. I mean, we’re not obliged to like our kids, right? In the animal kingdom, they chew up their young ones when there’s no food. Sometimes I wonder if I’m any different. Sometimes I wish I could chew her up. The sight of her fills me with dread. I never wanted to have her. I wish she was dead. But I can never say this aloud. So here I am, at her graduation. She’s an excellent kid. Straight A’s, great face. She’s the beacon of perfection. Yet I can’t seem to like her. In her speech, she thanked everyone—but me the most. She said I ‘motivated’ her to work this hard. After her speech, she came walking up to me, put her cap on my head, and said, “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mom.” And then she left. That was the last day I ever saw my rapist’s daughter.

you’d hear my footsteps, beneath the crinkling leaves you’d smell my scent, among the rusty scenes you’d feel me in the woollen mittens against your cold cheeks, and, you’d see me, underneath the golden hour in the mean. seasons come and seasons go, but it is only with me that you don’t feel so low, like a mother’s hum to a wailing child come hither, let me  carry your worries for a while. yet, like the coin of two faces, i cannot stay. but remember me  for i will always be, underneath the golden hour in the in-between.

Knowledge is a privilege. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is revolution. Knowledge is rebellion. Knowledge is carnage. To render anyone powerless, you don't need to cut off their limbs or take their ability to write or torture their intestines out. All you need to do is snatch their source of knowledge. When you take their source of knowledge, they will not have information. They will not be literate. They will not have the ability to think. They will not have the ability to believe. Their ability to be their own person. And once that is gone, what are they left with? Education is a privilege. It builds you into an independent person who knows what's wrong and what's right. It arms you with the tools to navigate the world. To be educated is to be informed. To be educated is to be a better person. To be educated is to know how to choose for the worse and for the better. As Plato once said, “The penalty to declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself,” And how do people know how to rule? They learn. Through education. Knowledge. Because, knowing is everything.  Imagine a young bird. So full of life, and so so full of possibilities. It can soar high in the sky and fly across the plains and the hills and over the lakes and so much more. Now if you keep the flying bird in a cage, you’re taking away its freedom. And the bird knows it because they’ve experienced the highs in the great skies. But what if it had never known that freedom? On the other hand, imagine another young bird. You clipped away its wings from the moment it was born. Will it ever touch the sky? Will it ever know how to fly? Will it ever know what it is to fly? It won't. Similarly, when you’re educated you know your possibilities. You know your limits. You know how high you can soar and how you’re limitless. But when you’re uneducated, you’ve never been shown those skies. When you clip away your wings from the moment you're born, do you even in your slightest believe that you'll experience the world as you should? As it is your right? If you're not educated, will you even know what is a right? We as humans are all born with the same needs and necessities. We all have our aspirations and desires. We all have the innate feeling of being known, and remembered. And no matter how terrible of a person you’re, even once in your life you wish to do something for the benefit of your people. The world is your people. And how do you achieve things normally? By being informed. By knowing. By being educated.But, unfortunately, education today is no longer a right; it's a privilege. The same system our ancestors worked so hard to remove. It is everybody's birthright to have equal opportunities. You can change the world, only if you wish to. Some people don’t want you to know this. There are some people who don't advocate for education. This is why. Because when you know, you know. And when you know, you realize that knowledge is power. And to render anyone powerless, just snatch away their source of knowledge. -shatakshi

you say you’re hard to love, but the breeze kisses you everytime you’re out; you say you’re hard to love, but the wind whispers about you all around; you say you’re hard to love and place your head on my shoulder, with all my strength, i’ll try my best, to break that insecurity boulder; you say you’re hard to love and force a small smile, not the moon, not the stars would ever compare with feelings of you being mine; you say you’re hard to love and don’t deserve it, but darling, how can you not be worthy of the very same thing that kept you breathing? you say you’re hard to love and a million other things, and then watch me tell a million and one times about how easy it is to love you.

The Feminine Forces of Halloween Imagine a dark hat with a long body, its peak so crooked that it is coiled up, with a purple ribbon at its rim, a head with long dark hair and pale white skin wearing it. The wearer’s eyes glisten with echoes of power. She is the one with a smile so silent that you cannot imagine the screams caused by it. Now, isn’t that how we normally describe witches? Cruel, malicious beings, waiting to feast on our terrors. This is the way that the stories we read, the series we watch, and the plays we act depict witches. But what if I told you we’ve been doing it all wrong? What if the dark-hatted lady simply wears black because it’s her favourite colour, not to symbolise evil? What if the pale skinned entity is simply that way just because she inherited those genes? What if her smiles are so silent because she’s an introvert and does not know how to express her emotions? Let us take a dive into the humane part of witches, and feminism in halloween. To start off easy, let’s talk about Halloween. Wikipedia says... a lot of things which I am unable to write here. But to keep it simple, Halloween is the day when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is the weakest. It was believed that on this day, the souls of the dead returned to their homes, so people dressed in costumes and lit bonfires to ward off spirits. Halloween marks the end of the Celtic year, which is also called the ‘Witches’ New Year.’ This also gives us a faint connection to why we associate witches with Halloween. Through the centuries, numerous young women have been trying to use magic and crystal balls and all sorts of things to find out about their future life, husbands (or wives!), destiny and what not. In the 21st century, we’d say “she’s just a girl ၄၃” and brush it off, but unfortunately, they weren’t born during this generation. Countless women were burnt, killed, and tortured for allegedly being witches.  A witch  by definition is a woman who is said to have magical powers. The media tends to portray them as evil, green skinned hags, when in reality, she’s just a girl.  The Forgotten Wisdom Of Witches In their earliest descriptions, witches weren’t the villains, rather really really smart women who knew about herbs, spirituality, herbs, or midwives who carried the secret of earth. In a world where science and medicine were rudimentary, these women bridged the gap between the natural and the mystical. Their understanding of plants, remedies, and the cycles of nature made them indispensable, yet also feared.   When you see a smart woman who knows her stuff, you already know she’s going to be independent. These women didn’t rely on men to navigate the world; they had their own skills and power. In a society where a woman’s worth was tied to her obedience, their existence itself was dangerous.  And guess who didn’t like women becoming girlbosses? Hint hint  Men!  And thus began the end of the beginning.  Witchcraft and Liberation of Women Through the centuries, witches have also been associated with rebellion. Witchcraft wasn’t just about casting spells; it was about challenging the rules. The witch trials of the past were often political acts disguised as spiritual purges. Women who spoke too loudly, acted too boldly, or simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time became targets. And yet, the witch persisted. She became a symbol—not of evil, but of resistance. Every whispered incantation was an act of defiance, every potion brewed a reminder of a woman’s power to create and control. In this light, witches are not the villains of history, but unsung heroines. The Era Of Modern Witches Fast forward to today, and witches are no longer confined to cauldrons and curses. Modern witchcraft, or "witch culture," has evolved into a movement. Tarot readings, moon rituals, and crystals have become tools for self-care and empowerment. The modern witch is less about casting spells and more about reclaiming agency. She’s not just a character in a story; she’s a metaphor for resilience, independence, and strength. Even pop culture has begun to rewrite the narrative. From Wanda Maximoff to Sabrina Spellman, witches are no longer one-dimensional villains. They are complex, relatable, and powerful—flawed but fierce. And as William Congreve said, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  Feminism In Halloween Halloween is often seen as a celebration of fear, but it is also a celebration of the feminine. Its symbols—witches, black cats, even the moon—are steeped in feminine energy. They remind us of the power that lies in intuition, mystery, and transformation. So, when you see a witch this Halloween, look beyond the hat and broomstick. See her for what she truly is: a symbol of strength, wisdom, and rebellion. Because even the ghosts of Halloween whisper of feminism, and even the witches remind us of the power of being "just a girl."

i love how my smile is so wide, like i'm in an amusement park and this is my favourite ride; i love how my mood lightens up, when you don’t know what to say and just mutter “sup”; i love how your touch sends shivers up my spine, like your heart and mine has the same design; i love how my hand fits in yours just right, it feels like my favourite jacket hugging my body tight; i love how your gaze grazes over mine, you make me feel like all the stars are in align; i love it when you trace the lines in my palm, ironic how the storm keeps the drizzle calm;  i love how you understand me without me even speaking, our own vernaculary—my heart is always seeking; i love how you just blabber gibberish with that stupid pen in your mouth, and god, how i wonder if i would ever say these to you aloud?

are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the hero who sacrificed his love for the world truly someone admiring? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, is the villain who saved the little puppy but burned the village, full of immorality? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the mother who steals food and clothes any better than someone committing robbery? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the girl who broke someone’s heart to keep others happy so depreciating? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the boy who tells white lies to protect his family truly deceiving? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the friend who drifts away in silence more guilty than one who betrays with speaking? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the stranger who walks past a cry for help any worse than the one ignoring? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Or are we all just pages of stories, full of flaws yet deserving of meaning? Maybe good and bad are shadows we wear, shifting with time, For in every sinner lives a saint, and in every saint, a crime.