One More


January 29, 2021

“I am content” was happy. It was self-sufficient; it had Subject, Verb, and Object.

Sentence had no space left for another word but made room for Adjective anyway. Adjective had promised to add beauty and richness to Sentence.

After becoming beautiful, Sentence got tempted by Adverb and became more beautiful.

So, it continued collecting more words. From Sentence with a meaning, it became a stunningly, if not outrageously, haunting reminder of inhuman atrocities that words—slightly known and mostly unknown, put uncomfortably next to each other, like cute cats next to ferocious dogs to create the bond of friendship—cause to hungry human minds in the sincere-most pursuit of what seems to be neither a work of fiction nor a gentle reminder of something remotely resembling a story, and certainly not poetry.

It became meaningless. Unhappy too.

Greed has its own grief. The desire for one more word.

The desire for “one more.” That won’t end anytime soon, until it will.

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