Perceptive readers,
My life force dries by the hour. I feel my time draws near. My purpose is seemingly served, although i wonder if it really is. My master once said that it is at the verge of end of this life, that one reminisces his life. Life then becomes a moving reel of snapshots and remembrances of those snapshots, of all the decisions and their consequences, of all insinuations and ill will;rights and wrongs that gave birth to it, of all the people who were or weren't with you then and most of all the innately valuable experience that time gifted you through it. My master said that it is those snapshots that accompany you to the next world that made you what you were meant for.
I do not boast about my birth, because it was nt anything memorable. It was the birth of any other imperfect thing in an imperfect world. I opened my eyes to see myself with thousands and thousands of my brethren. They say that life is like a boxing match; the world bares the newcomer to its leviathan tentacles of adulteration, roaring that you make each move, kills you, but still lets you survive till the next round. Every round becomes a tangled mesh of cobwebs of a mixture of experiences that a milling crowd exudes till he finds a purpose. I had become a nubile yet inanimate thing at the hands of a mercenary; a mercenary whose litany of price tagging any item becomes highly neurotic. However, all this dementia ended soon when i found myself in the coarse hands of a middle aged person to be my master; sold off for a specific dower.
I was brought to life and I bled at our union. Time and again i bled only to be refilled by the life force of the thoughts of a cerebral notion. His thoughts joined with mine, his life force united with mine and we gave a meaning to the solitary blankness of a paper. My master's thoughts became mine and we, the perpetrators to a culture; a brain child of intellect, rationale and thought provoking proses. His thoughts were the outburst of an angry young denizen. A vagabond in the society, tormented and traumatised by anguish over the death of his near and dear ones, bound by the shackles of apparent law and forced to succumb to its pleasures and gratifications. And I was his instrument of execution. He always said that peace is a compromise,a lull before a stronger storm arises and retribution which is due has to be demanded back. He believed that being equal meant to be equally strong as the adversary and for that the authority needed to be substantially impartial; he believed in equal opportunities of expression and in its power of mobilisation. After all, what use is sustenance in a meretricious society which indulges and professes itself in acts of vanity. His will to bring justice and retribution to his sect was meticulously driven by such convictions and he conveyed it unabashed. A prolific writer, he significantly contributed to articles and editorial columns in the local daily. His will lay in me. I was the instrument of his ideas. I gave expression to what he thought. Our union had ushered in a revolution alfresco. My master once said, an entire village can be engulfed by the flames of hatred of a single man. This was our revolution.
I say "our" because my life force emanated from our conjugation and this is what we gave rise to. The power of an idea whose time had come. My master made extensive plans of a coup d'etat, each and every detail that occured was recorded. Panoptic meetings, discussions, plans for execution; everything that one could possibly do was meticulously planned. He had lost the count of all time. It was within the confines of the four walls of the living room, that random thoughts of a dark mind turned to careful details. I was no more his instrument of expression. I became his weapon of subversion. Anger and resentment became our loyal guides. To mobilise and gather the 'others', he needed a medium to enkindle the fire within. He used the local magazine to publish those words, which should never had been said.
They say one has to give back what one owes to the system, or else face the consequences. They came in one day, brown and black and took him away. Thence i wait, lying half opened on the dusty table, in between the flutterin yellow moth eaten pages of a half opened diary, in the midst of a half written column. My body has been lined by layers and layers of dust, my nib reduced to a dry rust eaten beak. I wonder whether this is my end, end to my tryst with destiny, end to my life, soul and purpose? As I ebb away into oblivion, I crave for those coarse hands of my Master, my love. I wonder if he thinks about me, if he would come and take me away with him.
I wait fervently for my master, I long to die on those hands.
My life force dries by the hour. I feel my time draws near. My purpose is seemingly served, although i wonder if it really is. My master once said that it is at the verge of end of this life, that one reminisces his life. Life then becomes a moving reel of snapshots and remembrances of those snapshots, of all the decisions and their consequences, of all insinuations and ill will;rights and wrongs that gave birth to it, of all the people who were or weren't with you then and most of all the innately valuable experience that time gifted you through it. My master said that it is those snapshots that accompany you to the next world that made you what you were meant for.
I do not boast about my birth, because it was nt anything memorable. It was the birth of any other imperfect thing in an imperfect world. I opened my eyes to see myself with thousands and thousands of my brethren. They say that life is like a boxing match; the world bares the newcomer to its leviathan tentacles of adulteration, roaring that you make each move, kills you, but still lets you survive till the next round. Every round becomes a tangled mesh of cobwebs of a mixture of experiences that a milling crowd exudes till he finds a purpose. I had become a nubile yet inanimate thing at the hands of a mercenary; a mercenary whose litany of price tagging any item becomes highly neurotic. However, all this dementia ended soon when i found myself in the coarse hands of a middle aged person to be my master; sold off for a specific dower.
I was brought to life and I bled at our union. Time and again i bled only to be refilled by the life force of the thoughts of a cerebral notion. His thoughts joined with mine, his life force united with mine and we gave a meaning to the solitary blankness of a paper. My master's thoughts became mine and we, the perpetrators to a culture; a brain child of intellect, rationale and thought provoking proses. His thoughts were the outburst of an angry young denizen. A vagabond in the society, tormented and traumatised by anguish over the death of his near and dear ones, bound by the shackles of apparent law and forced to succumb to its pleasures and gratifications. And I was his instrument of execution. He always said that peace is a compromise,a lull before a stronger storm arises and retribution which is due has to be demanded back. He believed that being equal meant to be equally strong as the adversary and for that the authority needed to be substantially impartial; he believed in equal opportunities of expression and in its power of mobilisation. After all, what use is sustenance in a meretricious society which indulges and professes itself in acts of vanity. His will to bring justice and retribution to his sect was meticulously driven by such convictions and he conveyed it unabashed. A prolific writer, he significantly contributed to articles and editorial columns in the local daily. His will lay in me. I was the instrument of his ideas. I gave expression to what he thought. Our union had ushered in a revolution alfresco. My master once said, an entire village can be engulfed by the flames of hatred of a single man. This was our revolution.
I say "our" because my life force emanated from our conjugation and this is what we gave rise to. The power of an idea whose time had come. My master made extensive plans of a coup d'etat, each and every detail that occured was recorded. Panoptic meetings, discussions, plans for execution; everything that one could possibly do was meticulously planned. He had lost the count of all time. It was within the confines of the four walls of the living room, that random thoughts of a dark mind turned to careful details. I was no more his instrument of expression. I became his weapon of subversion. Anger and resentment became our loyal guides. To mobilise and gather the 'others', he needed a medium to enkindle the fire within. He used the local magazine to publish those words, which should never had been said.
They say one has to give back what one owes to the system, or else face the consequences. They came in one day, brown and black and took him away. Thence i wait, lying half opened on the dusty table, in between the flutterin yellow moth eaten pages of a half opened diary, in the midst of a half written column. My body has been lined by layers and layers of dust, my nib reduced to a dry rust eaten beak. I wonder whether this is my end, end to my tryst with destiny, end to my life, soul and purpose? As I ebb away into oblivion, I crave for those coarse hands of my Master, my love. I wonder if he thinks about me, if he would come and take me away with him.
I wait fervently for my master, I long to die on those hands.
