Rogue wants you to forget the past. And if it so tries to draw your attention, you don't look them in the eye or pay them their share of attention. He faces the same situation; his older wounds burn and itch, and often Rogue wishes to pierce his nails and get rid of them and the growing itchiness. But he does not. Digging into the past welcomes yesterdays instead of tomorrows. All Rogue is asking you to do is to ignore them. The past will go head over heels to make you look back, but you know which direction to face. Burke the itch. Because. Rogue does.

Rogue has always been treated with love and kindness. Affection. Compassion. Ardor. Togetherness. And of the like. Rogue yearns for hatred. Rogue wants the generations to hate him. He wants these heads and hearts to remember him with disgust. Rogue is tired of doting and devotion. Hatred fuels his life with tomorrows. For love never treated Rogue well. Oftentimes, he wonders, "What good does love bring? What good has it done to Rogue?" It is true. Love bears young heartbreak in its crushing womb. And as heartbreak comes of age, its sufferers father hatred. Hatred. Their illegitimate offspring. And Rogue shall parent it soon.

Her existence drives me crazy.

She has a peculiar way of starting a conversation, which is mostly one-sided for her fingers type faster and I must wait 'til she goes offline. Okay, wait. That was a bad start!

She will speak one of the most beautiful languages ever laced. Urdu. Come up with words I'll find strange yet delightful. She will keep me wondering what they mean, finding this weird joy in my eagerness. Her quotes and poetry pierce through my flesh and reside in my marrows. Teasing and demolishing the tender parts of it. Her tales of ardor and depravity and desolation are a major throwback to my past lovers, even if I didn't have any. Her voice, a mason jar of echoes dipped in honey. The ends of her lips clutch onto words of shāyari, ready to let go of them and raze the heavens in my heart. I know I dare not read or listen to her lines, for she would love to know that I soaked what's in between. I'm least surprised to see her call her photos a collection of "cheap" photography. Have a look at them one too many times, and it's priceless. But this damsel will agree to disagree. 1997 to infinity; living the time of everyone's lives. I have to have the privilege to marry the small bouts of happiness, before she asks me to. And I know she will. Apparently, this woman does not belong to this century. Wearing bangles in the age of fitbits. Hijabs instead of fancy hats. In this time, she is a gorgeous devastation, and I often try to find myself in the core of it. That's one of the reasons why they named her after a fierce animal. Untamed. And I bet anybody would surrender to such a unique and insane wilderness. Young Lioness, makes me mad.

The Sun is setting, and people are leaving.

Beloveds don't kiss my cheeks no more. Caring and appreciating them is basically honeydicking. My friends think twice before speaking, thrice before tapping the Enter button to send me a text message, and read those words quadruple times in case they find it all too inappropriate. Circles are getting smaller or none. Acquaintances are strangers. The crowd is a pool of nobody's. And I am losing this precious company. I can't quite recognize the guy with whom I had a long conversation, a moment ago. These rotting piles of meat are promising me things that'll please my heart; I remember, my heart is a stupid fuck. It'll take 'em as they are. So my brain kicks in. They trusted me most and early. And distrust when we know each other well enough. It's happening, and it's happening every other second. Even now.

People are leaving, and fading away from our lives on purpose. It is meant to be, and that's all I must watch. Watch, everybody depart. And I can not help but see the sun sink below the horizon. The sun is leaving as well...