We write stories that we know. Stories about ourselves, suspended in beautifully woven-lies and coated in humour, as if to dilute the vinegar. Stories that we hope would unburden our minds and heal our scars. But that is the beauty of literature, taking the mundane, the ugly and giving it a new life, capable of bringing joy. That is how we write. Self-therapy through our re-imaginations of reality. Different renditions of the same cry, re-telling of age old atrocities, and we continue to pay respects and tribute, because we all know it take bravery to confront demons that plague a poet and manifest in words.