"It had always been my dream to live beyond the horizon, in a world of freedom, hiding behind some celestial body, so the sharp embers of our world never touch me."
This celestial body, one barred with infinite rules, restricting our movement, exists in a framework where our insides have no space, and no limit to responsibly maintain ourselves either. A week gone, and a normal day here bears no fruit. Nothing sweet, at least.. The early morning rituals with the smell killing the sense of it- unbearable. A walk to the coolness of the air, and seven hours of wandering, lost.. Only to return back to the inevitable store house, and departing to make myself feel at home in someone else's. No belonging, no belonging..
I stand here now, all by myself, overlooking that horizon from a different direction, looking back on that yesterday, and contemplating, weighing the pros and cons, and being balanced, manipulating the former to outweigh the latter; to force upon today, a sense of bitterness..
It's funny how the demons of yesterday look at this horizon. They look like they were always a part of me, and trust me, they always were. And living these parallel lives, trying to balance a touch of destiny, and history, while making the tryst with both.. isn't easy. The task at hand is of that of matching one demon's dusk to another's dawn, trying to find a way out of this silent planet we've been chained to, slipping away into oblivion, into the minds of fate we had created for ourselves. Losing grip on our path- the path with very high walls.. so high that it actually allows a limitless, and seamless resurrection from within.
Thus, never at home, roaming around in dark, closed corridors- still slipping, still forgetting- calling upon the dark demon's dying breath- inducing many others to believe in its gratitude, creating a road for my own self- very different from a long lost promise made to a friend- a promise to lower down the walls of disguise, a promise to publicly beautify the world with my own conscience, a promise to privately scar my face. What people assume, (assume!) is that a joker has reached his circus.. and his show has finally begun.. The only reason for his being is the jokes, the laughter, the fun- all at the expense of peers, and fellow teachers. And the bricks in the wall just lining up, higher, and higher.. Another one in this long chain of deceit...
Trying to curb a story with the makeshift residents of this new found burning existence, debating in the coffined while light of the middle world, and to lay your stakes on the roll of a die. The only story that ends with some frolic includes the walling of my own countenance, the beauty of it being hidden by all the misty smoke of fun that leaves no path to cross.
It's the same ol' story as yesterday, with a lot of apprehension. The same ol' fear of the unknown- with the hyperactivity deviating, and I daresay, destroying the purpose of our tryst-worthy existence- destroying the purpose of the door we passed to enter, and forgetting the way we were meant to exit it, at the pinnacle of foolishness- only to feel life getting out of hand, for the worse. Probably, what they say about the ascending feel is true, or maybe it is a parabola, it might peak on its way down. Maybe.. Just maybe.. and it's getting all cloudy now.
On a longer, and lighter futuristic note, I would picture myself in bed, early morning- with a cup of coffee (not tea!) in one hand, and newspaper in the other. My grandson holding another, pulling me out, and calling upon me to join him in his lighted fate. Granddaughter polishing my feet, and privately nourishing the implicit meaning of her own life at my behest. With not a worry anymore, and having two generations following, and the lineage protected, I would feel satiated. My own progeny, gushing through work, the early morning brunch, and the E/FT at one blurry go. I'll laugh at his fate, and remember my own civil torture- decades ago- during an age where we spent all our life living on a prayer, and everything built on chance, and hope- luck, no courage, and a desire for constancy. The sadism reflected in the same coloured eyes, with the pleasure of it all being nothing more than self-inflicted torture.. but the feel is to last a lifetime's frustration. Salvation.
“Sometimes, we create walls of disguise.. not to keep people away from us; but to see how many of ‘em care enough.. to break them down, and reach out to us...”
I stand here now, all by myself, overlooking that horizon from a different direction, looking back on that yesterday, and contemplating, weighing the pros and cons, and being balanced, manipulating the former to outweigh the latter; to force upon today, a sense of bitterness..
Trying to curb a story with the makeshift residents of this new found burning existence, debating in the coffined while light of the middle world, and to lay your stakes on the roll of a die. The only story that ends with some frolic includes the walling of my own countenance, the beauty of it being hidden by all the misty smoke of fun that leaves no path to cross.
It's the same ol' story as yesterday, with a lot of apprehension. The same ol' fear of the unknown- with the hyperactivity deviating, and I daresay, destroying the purpose of our tryst-worthy existence- destroying the purpose of the door we passed to enter, and forgetting the way we were meant to exit it, at the pinnacle of foolishness- only to feel life getting out of hand, for the worse. Probably, what they say about the ascending feel is true, or maybe it is a parabola, it might peak on its way down. Maybe.. Just maybe.. and it's getting all cloudy now.
