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“In those blank pages is my story, Nothing ever written that wasn’t erased, Every thought was already a waste, And time preserves its own memory, A memory of me fading into time… I carry the weight of my emptiness, And see the world through eyes of needs, These needs breeds more habits, And these habits preserve my loneliness… So don’t confuse immortality with life, For life belongs to those who can live, We are infected with non-existence, And there was never a cure, We are the immortal clones of repetition… Four walls is what remains of my kingdom now, As history repeats itself, We all just change names, And the story remains the same, You took birth inside my head, For you are my imagination, And I am your reality… But reality expired long back in childhood, A memory of ‘would be could be’ life we carry now, But we still gift ourselves expectations, And hope engulfs every illusion, We just live on to pleasure our senses again… --- Trans-Sexual Adolescence” — Piyush Rohankar