How I prefer them.

I write in monologues,

One on one conversations,

With my inner self, my outer self, all by myself.

I am not self-obsessed, nor absorbed in my own self,

I guess it is mere comfort,

The kind that makes me comfortable enough to shout or yell

Or at times even console.

Ideas, they say emanates from the human mind,

Settles for a while, rises, then takes a narrow road to extinction or stagnancy,

Maybe that is why my comfort remains within the boundary,

The carved territory of my existence, my being,

My inner self, my outer self, and me.

My ideas, they are plain, dull and happy, as they stay within this boundary,

Neither opposing nor supporting anyone else’s ideas or opinions,

Utopian for its own mark,

Sometimes better off, while sometimes worse off, than what preceded it,

But again, satiated, content, and free, that’s how they are.

The one reason for my love for monologues is, I contrary myself

At my own will, at my own cost, and at my own disposal

Without having to justify the whole idea of the possibilities of being wrong.