Dreamers undead

Fought, knights of salvation
The walls of destiny.
Spun, dancers of deprivation
The drops of infinity.

Strengthened, as they reigned
Down with desire of fire,
Weakened, they were chained
Up with fire of desire.

Dissolved, like ashes in wine,
Hand in hand they go
Entwined, as tales in one line,
Amusing the very last sorrow.

Cursed, to god they call
Now that they cannot cry.
Fiery, they watch him fall
And they bleed him dry.

Sooner than now

Soon, time shall cease and they shall last
In a world, free of sinners of the past
And of saints of the future, unbound.
Soaring as skies, yet humble as ground,

In eternity, they shall dwell,
For destiny, they shall knell,
Witness the dissonance disappear,
All the ghosts, they shall not fear,

To evil they shan’t bow, nor to good,
Nor shall they stand where they stood.
Nothing shall make them care for how
Or why, time ended sooner than now!

Shades of Grey

Though it may grow harder for people to remember when, but they don’t forget the whys behind the simplest of emotions inscribed onto them. The stronger these reasons are, the longer those emotions stay with you. Some stay long enough to become beliefs, while others remain as memories, innocuous and distant to be called upon just in time, right before the mouth coughs out “I knew it!”
Nolan wasn’t any different, but for one too many reasons he remembered this day, the lesson, and also the reason behind it. He had never been too big on looking back. He wanted to carry this day with him, so it could hold him slow every time he would wish to run away. Past not left behind isn’t past anymore. It becomes a part of you. He wanted this day to be a part of him.
He ran up the cliff, he would not normally like to step a foot on. He ran up that cliff in less than half the time it would normally take him. The top of the cliff was a flat area of probably a couple of square meters, but he needed to stand taller than anything around him, taller than anyone around him. He found a grey brick, with its corners chipped off so assertively that it could hardly be called a brick anymore. He placed it close to the centre, and stood there for a few minutes.
He just stood there, not saying anything, not listening to anyone, just looking down on everything around him. Right then he owned the world. The world was his, and he was the king. He had remembered the words rightly, just how they were spoken. He played them in his mind and then repeated them, “Proud to have what I have, prouder to be living without that I don’t.”
Casper Jones, Nolan’s father had imparted a twisted wisdom down the blood line. A legacy was to follow from this half-truth. Evolution never did anyone any harm, but then changes of extreme measures couldn’t do any good either. Nolan had travelled a journey of days, months, probably years within minutes. This was one of those feelings that stay with you till the end. It evolves into beliefs.
Nolan was proud of everything he had, and surprisingly so of everything else he didn’t. He had moved on from being afraid to being proud in a single go. He had missed everything in between. He was never going to be envious of anyone for not having a certain thing (material or immaterial), but just proud, right away. He was better only when he was bitter. Was it any good? Of course, he had lived his life without regret, without repent until this day. So what changed? Why was he now reflecting on his way of life?
The truth is that even if used in its most right forms, your brightest asset often turns out to be your greatest liability. It’s because it’s most dear to you, precious, and hence makes you vulnerable. It indeed becomes the fuel that drives the soul into action, but also the firewood that burns it in hell. The only escape then, is acceptance of the seemingly obvious facts, facts that see everything for just what it is, not feeling proud or envious or insecure or anything else for that matter.
But at this day Nolan was faced with a greater question. In time he knew, that he would grow out of his cursed blessing. But right then, he was looking his daughter Fiona in her eyes who had the same questions, same complaints, and same disappointments as he once did. She was faced with the same fears of not belonging in the normal world. What was he to do then? Bless her and curse her simultaneously, or just let her be? Or try something new on her? What if that something was still worse?
He was weak, and was weakened by Fiona. He was exhausted, out of strength. In such moments of weakness, human brain hardly ever functions consciously. He too was overtaken by a desire to regain control, to feel proud once again, to reclaim his world, to rise to the top of this situation.
It is something to face your fears and totally different to help someone else overcome theirs. While one can change your life, the other makes you feel responsible and again proud for something greater. He called out to Fiona and after a pause exclaimed, “You should be proud to have what you have, and prouder to be living without that you don’t”.
Nolan had passed on his twisted wisdom, his legacy of pride, a life without regrets. This would be his first regret since that day on the cliff, the first blot of ink on a perfectly white life that would now be lived in shades of grey.

Alix and Alex: Silver Spheres- The beginnings

With their perfectly modern intellectual minds mocking their intuition, they had been walking towards each other in an indistinguishable coherence, observing each other discreetly. But it was only now that they had become aware that the other person was neither negligent nor reluctant. And in their last few steps, hesitantly aware of each other’s presence, they slowed down in attempt at nothing.
Both of them, but Alix more so, found they elements of mystery and uncertainty in such situations like this to be the contributors to the playground of a juvenile mind. And they were certain to have outgrown of anything closer. They had never experienced such exhilaration, tantalizingly challenging this belief of theirs. In spite of many a setbacks, they had continued to ignore and adjourn this dissonance.
They had done this before one too many times. And no, they weren’t too proud to say but they had succeeded to fail. They were willing to do so again, and again, until one fine day they would fail to fail. And then they would win, but until then, they had no reason sensible enough to let themselves out of their own dominion.
The air right then was dry, the night unstill. None of them were alone, and yet they wouldn’t talk. Laughter broke out as one of Alix’s friends told a joke. But to her, the joke wasn’t funny at all, but a mere mockery of the obvious. She preffered intelligent, witty humor over thoughtless, childish remarks that were mistaken for jokes. And so, she was merely annoyed by the distraction that gave her no reason to laugh.
To Alex, this meek, simple and yet extraordinary girl had always been more sensible than himself. It was no surprise that the silent, and yet at times, fidgety boy also had an impression that asserted the highest levels of admiration on Alix’s mind. They were indeed, fascinated by the sparkling magnificence and subtle character that they possessed. In spite of all that, like spheres of silver, they were not reciprocating but somehow reflecting each other. And every time that they met, these reflections would form endless loops, swirling, dissolving and then eventually disappearing into themselves.
Alex observed a genuine expression curiosity turning into an honest look of disinterest and then back. He smiled while looking at the ground in front of him. He didn’t count, but estimated around 12 steps before they’d pass each other and then swiftly turned to face Alix.
It would not be absurd to say that in this very moment he felt similarly annoyed by the discussion going on around him. He always shunned away topics critical in nature, for he believed that they were just facades, false impressions of deeper problems, which none other than himself seemed to be interested in. It wasn’t either the case that he had enough knowledge on any such subjects, and neither that he had ever tried to gain some.
Alix just as always found herself to be alloyed with unwanted pretenses that emerged from her unconscious. This, in fact was one of the reasons she looked at everyone around her with a similar perception, as spheres of silver lining with dark, presumably black tar underneath. Not that she was the same, but she knew that anything worth fighting for came with a price. Little did her self-righteous mind know that a few things really worth fighting for came with a prize.
3, possibly 4 steps were left. Alex slowed down further for he didn’t wish for the moment to pass, not again. He didn’t wish for her to pass, not again, for if she would, he knew that he wouldn’t turn back. He had never been too big on looking back. But he wasn’t sure, not a cent percent at least, and neither was she. They were seeing each other after a considerably long time, and they were consciously aware that this could very well be the last time they saw each other.
If it was not for Alix, right then, it would have certainly been the last time they saw each other, and a moment of potential significance in their lives would have passed just like the ordinary ones, only longer. But luckily for both of them, this was one of those moments when something just ticks within the brain, and a chill grips the body in what they call fear. By then, even if Alex was growing out of the situation, Alix was condensing into it with just one question in her head. She said to herself- “Although I’m not sure, but this is as sure as I’ve ever been. And what if this is as far as I’ll ever go?”
But they had passed each other by then. They had tried to hold on to something they wanted to end and mark the beginning of something else, something greater. But to the most of their expectations, it had merely ended, ended into nothing but a whispered scream. The discussion on his side had ended; the joke on hers didn’t last. But he had not spoken, neither had she laughed. Were all those luxuries, the pleasures of mortal minds missed for nothing? If yes, did that matter to any of them? If not, why did they miss it all? Did anything at all mattered? Or was it too late to answer that?
She turned her head unhurriedly, looking over her shoulder and then virtually pulling the rest of her body. “Hey!” she yelled.

Alix and Alex: Incandescent

[20 minutes past on the dinner table.]
Alix: How long do you think we can continue like this?
Alex: Like what?
Alix: This! The silence! All your gloom and anger I can take, but what am I to make of your silence? Hatred, ignorance or guilt?
Alex: I don’t care. Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything.
Alix: Ignorance, it is then.
Alex: Don’t you get it? You said that what we have is possibly the best anybody can have. Now, we built this, our love. And if anything should ever go wrong, when we have a disagreement, we have to move down to the next best thing.
Alix: And you figured silence is the next best thing?
Alex: Why not? Do you wish to argue instead?
Alix: Perhaps it is. But you know what’s not so good about these next best things? We’re always gonna know that we’ve made a compromise. Everything that we’ve built will only be corrupted, tainted by this idea. It’s a slippery slope, the next best thing. It only ever gets worse.
Alex: Do you ever wish that we could go back, back to when we hadn’t lost anything?
Alix: No, my dear, not ever. What good would that do me, watching myself lose everything all over again, watching us ripped to shreds all over again?
Alex: No. you’re mixing it up. I’m saying when we had lost nothing…
Alix: Yeah, and I’m saying when we had everything to lose. What’s the difference?
Alex: I don’t care what the difference is. Would you even listen to yourself? You don’t want the next best thing. God! You don’t even want the best thing. I’m having a hard time trying to figure out what do you really want.
Alix: Don’t you ever wish to go back to the beginning when we had nothing? Do you remember the day when Rhea said to us that we must have a lot in common?
Alex: Yes, and you said that we don’t, and that we’re just two different people who understand that it’s okay to be different.
Alix: Well, I don’t think we do anymore.
Alex: And..?
Alix: And I think, we have known that for a long time. We shouldn’t have been lying to ourselves all along.
Alex: Let’s say we could start again, try and have a different future. Wouldn’t everything we say or do be measured, calculated. Wouldn’t we be trying to escape one lie only to live another?
Alix: That is certainly not the point of it all. What I want to know is do you still see us having a similar conversation on a similar day, on a similar place? Do you still picture me saying once again that what we have is possibly the best anyone could ever have?
Alex: I definitely do.
Alix: But you silence says otherwise, like there will come a day you will give up on me. You don’t know how much it scares me that someday I’ll be the only one believing in us.
Alex: Not in this life, no. What we have is the best anyone… damn it! We have the best. And I’ll always believe in that, no matter what.
Alix: I’m glad to hear that, to know that what is sort of… all we have, is the best.
Alex: Yeah, sort of all we have… and we do believe in that.

Ingenuous Discontinuous Coherence

If your mind creates and shapes your world and thus your creation, what happens when two or more independently, ingenuously woven worlds are meant to collide? You can experience this while reading, storytelling, in art exhibitions, graffiti walls and many more places. Two or more exclusive pieces seem to understand and subtly reply to each other. Different stories by different authors seem to be in continuation when it comes to the central idea. The message just above yours, in a graffiti wall, seems be related even if yours was completely genuine.
It is even more interesting when two people enter an indefinite, discreet conversation through multiple passive responses.
Now, it is indeed beautiful if the two people are unaware of the loop formed and still more beautiful if they unknowingly discover the loop, but the ambiguity doesn’t disappear. I call it ‘IDC’, Ingenuous Discontinuous Coherence.
The origin of this type of conversations is rooted in a chunk of randomness, centered on very few plausible topics, essentially passive.
 A lot happens to the very innocent thoughts through their conversion into passive dialogues, a series of interrelated monologues. The ideas in their basic form are broken down to pieces, bits incepted by the preceding message and further manipulated by the existence of an empty stretch of time.
The obscure spontaneity, thus available at the initiation, is lost with time and is taken over by obvious choices of words, colors and existent ideas from the memory. The obvious choice, the result of which is just as much unexpected as conceivable, is then lent a creative hand.
The job of the sender, now, is not just to get the message through but also to sustain the passivity, to provide the receiver with just enough of the bits and the time for return. In case the sender fails in doing so, the end of the conversation is often marked by a revelation too sharp to keep up the compliance, the partial silence, provoking the receiver to withdraw on will.
The result, of course, is a complex, concealed exchange of beautifully scattered messages flowing in an almost perfect coherence.

Questions. Call it a page from my diary if you will...

For how long before you explode do you contain the implosion? How long can you go on in search of something, how long after losing yourself? How exactly do you tell someone who doesn’t listen to go to hell?
Who is precisely the one to blame when there’s no absolute origin? Where’s the escape when everyone is so right that everything is wrong… beyond recognition, when the only legacy at every level is disappointment.
And what about the first person who discovers the glitch? Does his knowledge limit him then? Or is it to set him apart, different from others, longing to be the same?
Is this the point when the observer becomes the subject? Is this the point when he realizes that the only thing that can have the slightest of effect is a tragedy… something to be lost for something else to be seen?
When you’ve lost something, you see a lot more, things you watch every day but you do not see, or observe. Is the subject himself then to become the tragedy? Or wait… wait for something to happen, certain of just one thing… that nothing could ever. How then, do you hope… when your only fear is more than often reminded to you… when having nothing seems so safe, ‘coz it can’t be taken away from you? 
Am I wasting my time then, if I just lie, watching it pass by and everything and everyone in it … everyone, so beautifully indescribable that all I feel for them is envy.

Ode to the point of no return

The possessions that pass for life, so fragile
The good, the bad, the right, the wrong.
Dominion, humming a freedom song,
Envy, wearing the facsimile of a fake smile

Who, in a world ideal, shall stand aside?
Confession, lacking innocence but guilt too
Confrontation, self indulgent and childish too
Who is to win the beauty, to claim the pride?

Those who lay still, claiming aloud
To have raised the world from ashes?
Or those dancing amidst the crashes,
Holding still higher, heads that never bowed?

The path must have been hard to discern,
For who wished to reach beyond life
Have fallen into death, and are safe,
Singing ‘Ode to the point of no return’.

'Life Like That'

Anastase: Persuasion, Mr. Raynor, is a sickness. Tell me, now that you have managed to shove this idea down my head, do you still want to know if I’m French?
Raynor: That ship sailed, my boy, the moment you brought up that gun to my face. Why don’t we get down straight to what do you want to know.
Anastase: So I thought. You see, some wickedly stupid person in the past said “I would kill for a life like that”. And you, Mr Raynor, the one who could, took it up as a business opportunity. You wouldn’t care to blink in the moment before you kill the person I name.
Raynor: Right. Name anyone you want. I could get you the life of the president for heaven’s sake! The moment I entered this market, I knew I had to disappear first. I’m a ghost, lad! I’m not intimidated by people like you. Just imagine what I could do if I get out…
Anastase: … Alive? Ah! You roll me over ray. You don’t really believe that, do you? The life I want is yours. I’m going to be you. Unless you’re able to persuade me once again, Raynor will walk out of that door, but not you.
Raynor: Alright. Alright! You’ve got it all wrong. I’m no killer! I’m a psychologist, and this facility is in fact an experimental treatment centre for people like you, who are easily convinced to kill. The concept was built up nationwide to deal with terrorism at the root levels.
Anastase: Great beginning, Ray. You really are deeply affected off this disease, the persuasion thing. Go on though.
Raynor: We work with the patients’ accordance in the beginning, just to be sure of a plausible threat. Why do you think I would lie to you now?
Anastase: Well, because I told you to. Anyway, do you know how I got here today? I walked, 19 blocks, in the middle of the traffic. But the people out there are so… careful that I’m still safe and sound. The last four I walked with my eyes closed, from in between the park, but no one really gave a damn.
Raynor:  And you want control over them, right? You seek my life for power, for being able to give the people, who want it enough, someone else’s life. Am I Right?
Anastase: In the park, it was like no one else could see either. I wasn’t unable to speak, I was just waiting for them to ask. So, damn hell I want control, a controlled beginning.
Raynor: But you have tried that before, haven’t you? A new beginning sounds brilliant, but does it ever work?
Anastase: It doesn’t matter. I’m here to be you, to kill you. And then slowly, life by life, I’ll take them all. Anyone whose life can be lived better, by someone else, doesn’t deserve to live.
Raynor: Aren’t you listening to me? ‘Life like that’, this entire institution, is a disguise. Taking on someone else’s life is impossible. Even if you could accomplish something like that, every life would be tainted.
Anastase: I’m not looking for a giant white sheet; a few black patches will be just fine.
Raynor: No, it’s going to be worse than ever. You have tried to start new, right? You couldn’t create a better future knowing all the wrongs that you did. How do you expect my future and your past to blend in together?
Anastase: It can’t be. The brochure says, it’s the best a person can ever have.
Raynor: It’s a fake! No… put that gun down. You clearly need help. Every beginning you attempt, this way, will be fouled by something, if nothing else, by this conversation. This circle is inescapable for someone in your position, so strongly rooted….
Anastase: An ending… an ending could suffice for a healthy start. I cannot dream to run while I’m sleepwalking. I need to wake up. Wake up!
Raynor: We’re on the same page Anastase. Remember what I said about working with patients in accordance? I understand you’re absolutely right. Do it!
[Raynor takes the pistol off his hand, shoots him once again, in the chest.]
Raynor [on his cell phone ]: Persuasion, Ms. Desirae, is a sickness for most and a gift for those who can use it. Next time, maintain the protocols. Don’t let a person in just because he’s French, and make sure that he's here for someone else's life, not mine.

Denial

Persistence is not what I rehearse, for I do not breathe perpetuity. Is there no one left to defy me?

Change is not what I’ve seen, for in the dark I’ve forgotten the day. Can the sun not burn me?

Individuality is not what I practice, for I’m not me. Is there no one left for me to be?

Reflex is not what I rely on, for I am an uncanny response. Is there no emotion left unseen?

Repentance is not what I trust, for laughter is in the air. Is there no once left to deceive me?

Sanguinity is not what I want, for I’m a deeper vision. Is there no one left to disappoint me?

Redemption is not what I seek, for I haven’t sinned. Is there no one left to condemn me?

Stay

He’s where all the wicked reside.
He’s with who all the holy abide.
To his own will, a scarecrow, ruled still,
Defenseless, for the winds to kill.

Stay by him, stay by the night.
As a desire to remain shall fight
A wish for death to arrive
Discreet as he is, he is to come alive.

With his eyes up, and his face down,
A gaze and a smile born of a frown,
Dancing, dripping from beyond a past
Disappointing, forcing you not to last.

But, stay till the dawn, stay for the sight
Of him burning for you, of him burning bright,
Of the face in the wreath of smoke to come,
Of the face of what you are to become.

The Falling Castle of Glass

A solitary avenger, set to believe
Less in gracious lies than those who kill,
The awed truths; He, so naive
Shall do so at his peril.

As incredible is this last while,
And though he could deny to try
To forsake his castle of glass, fragile.
At no cost shall he try to deny

To ask himself for he’s so wise,
To stab his mind again and again,
From a deathlike slumber he shall rise,
Only to fall, and so forever remain.

How could he be the creator of disguise?
How the thoughts prevented from fantasy
Could have spun an object of despise,
To worsen the imperfection, an unreal reality.

The Birthday Girl, Part 1 of 2: The Melodica

It’s the impression of truth in your dreams that’s underrated, not the falsehood of reality.
She had somehow slept the whole night, and had woken up to the sound of melodica. Everyone would remind her time and again that it wasn’t the best way to start a day. But to her, this was perfect, as perfect as it could be, better than anything. She fiddled through her stuff on the night stand, arranged flawlessly to a degree that could redefine flawlessness itself. In a rush, she reached down to a book, spoiling any possible pattern in the way, displacing anything placed over it, producing a muffled noise every time, perhaps the only sound other than the melodica, which was still piercing its way through a damp silence.
Her eyes, as always, were profound, and displayed an extraordinary sense of fidelity, sure and rather tenacious of anything she would do or say. Right now, the same persistence dwelled on resisting and rejecting any impulse to say anything at all. There was no one in the room to judge her, but she made a constant, conscious effort not to utter a single word for she was alone, and talking to herself didn’t quite appeal to her saner self.
In a moment of condensation, she seemed to be looking through the cover that read “A Bottle of Sand, Dream Journal, Madeline Phyn” All set to make the final, most beloved entry, once again she rushed in hunt for a pen.
“I’ll forget it. I shouldn’t forget it. I can’t forget it. I won’t forget it.” Her short held control over unspoken words, to her surprise, had betrayed her conscience, yielding to a deeper splendor instead. But she let the feeling pass with an understated laughter. Deliberately, she flipped one page at a time up to the last, which she knew was still unwritten, forming words and sentences through the way.
But there was already something scribbled on the last page, “They say that the dreams you can remember are more likely to come true. I know what I wished for, last night and in my dream I got…” This wasn’t something she had written earlier but what she was about to write. It didn’t say what she had wanted, just that in this dream of hers, she had got whatever she wanted. The melodica, playing serene until now, echoed through her, from head to the feet and then back.
Agitated, she half-closed her eyes and reached out to the clock in attempt to turn it off, but she couldn’t. Decisively, she returned to bed to read the rest of it. The journal was nowhere to be found. For the very essential commonsensical reasons, she was convinced that she hadn’t woken up yet, that her dream hadn’t ended. She observed the sound of her breaths dropping, then of herself dropping back on the bed. Sure, persuaded by herself, but still filled with fear, she looked back at the clock. She wanted to go back to sleep for the most paradoxical reason- to wake up.
The intensity of the current dream made her question the remembrance of any other she’d seen hitherto. The melodica was now to serve its greater purpose, to consume the melancholy and reproduce it in a form acceptable to a troubled mind. Before falling back to sleep, she revisited her idea behind the title of the journal. She had called it ‘A bottle of sand’ for it was a collection of sharp, reflective, and authentic desires of an innocent mind, wrapped up in timid, awake, and believable words.

Green eyed demon who stole a part of my soul

‘You’re gonna do fine kid’, said the demon with green eyes. How would I ever forget those eyes, and those hands that stole your thoughts, your feelings with a mere touch, cold down to the bones. Fierce, the way he walked, saturnine was the way he stood. His feet burning, a crater of ash flicked on this land with every step of his. Wine he drank, out the winery he did maul, his hobby to steal parts of the passing soul.
“I owe you my dear, you’re gonna do fine, except for the parts when you need the part that now is mine.” The fight was fair, I agree, for except he was a million times bigger, beheld my kryptonite and knew when to pull the trigger.
“Everything you hold back there, every bit you want to flip, is who you are, is what that matters, and makes you different.” How does he live with himself, with those stolen half-souls, I could bet the other half of mine, to the fact that he doesn’t.
I did go ablaze, with a mighty sword onto his throat, spun him down to the ground right in the middle of the town. Retorted he, so wisely, “I don’t know you lad, but with this fire of thine, I’m sure you’re gonna do fine.”  I could though go on and slay his weary skin and slit his blunt horns, reduce him to a single skull with a few dozen cross bones.
“Let go of reasons, befriend the alibi, and I’m sure, my dear, you’re gonna do just fine” I followed him into silence, silently, saw him rip another soul off its dearest, ah! my strategy, curse you my prodigy!
I left his ground for good, left his desert to himself, left that part, of me behind me for no good, that no angel could do right, no elf. And so I sleepwalk in a reverie, and I live a dream. In a desert of ice, in between the pine, I blow into the wind my song, of dries verses, filled with witty broken curses.
Half of me is still ablaze, the rest frozen, fumes of the first lifting, the other melting, sinking in itself. Countless parts have I lost in search of that one, the one he stole, he the demon, dark as coal. Countless of those lost are counterfeited in remorse, for the sake of the one part that was to hold the rest together, tonight I lose a few more, to this never-changing weather.
I wouldn’t lie to you, even if I lived for it, looks like it got to me, and now I’m always gonna want what I can’t have. Tell me that someday, you’ll be here with me, up, here, look me in the eye. Perhaps we’ll take a stand then, you and I, not to kill or to win but perhaps to die. Say, we’ll be seen, as we emerge from within the scene, inside-out to dissolve back in. For what it’s worth, I hereby confess, I am a part of the moon tugged to this earth. I speak the truth, but I do not moan, and that’s pretty tricky, ‘coz I just can’t do it on my own. No, without you I may never shine, apart from that, I guess, I’m gonna do just fine.

Invidia

Through your soul it shall burn,
In a sunny day, like a placid nocturne.
From the ashes the dearest shall rise,
A sweet melancholy you cannot despise.

Should it then crush, should you refrain
Should you not let the tyrant be slain,
And burn out your last lucky star
To realize, that wishes only go so far.

A brighter light shall darken the rebel,
Like the shadow of something invisible.
You shall fall with its rise.
Then, my dear, who will call you wise?

But, should the cynic ever sing along
This sine qua non, this dark song,
And wear this armor, thick, of stones,
A skull for a face; for arms, crossbones.

Upon the world shall the mayhem turn.
And when nothing’s left to yearn,
To only fall again, you shall rise.
Even then, my love, none will call you wise.

(I wanted to try something darker this time and so picked this.
'Invidia' is latin for envy, described as one of the seven deadly sins. And the above is about the two ways out of the basic state - to surrender and to fight it. And about how none in fact gets one out.)

The Story

Have we not all,
A story to tell?
Be it of angel’s ball,
Or of demons and hell.

Quite different this one is
With characters who lack verbs.
Of her and a few of his
Feelings short of words.

Of too many chances
And a few surprises.
Some unrealized fancies.
Some unclaimed prizes.

A few miracles and magic
And of just those few.
Of jokers so tragic,
The end, they already knew.

Of hopes too high,
And of fears higher.
Of burning ice in one eye,
Another with frozen fire.

Of worthless secrets,
Safe down the river bed,
Painted memories, regrets
In the colors they shed.

Of faces, so expressionless,
Could only look numb.
Of steps, so effortless,
Sounded dumb, dumb!

Of an empty space in between.
Of the pitter and the patter.
Everything that emerged within,
Of best things, just not better.

Of a few frenzied curses
Disappeared, as they fell
In a song of silent verses,
Unsung, for an undone spell.

Of fists opening limply,
Of fingers letting go
A story that lately
Its characters only know.

The cycles and circles, in spheres of chaos.

…Given a choice, every time, he would choose to choose, but would never make the final choice. This, you see, was inevitable. One of the million times he had to find out. The longer he paused, the heavier they got and eventually sunk in. What happens to the sunken choices! Well, they wait, and pop up again at the worst possible hour, when you’re in no state to decide the color of your hat (like you wear one!).

So, anyway! Now that all the cycles and circles, trapped in these spheres of chaos, are for once back at where they started, which as I said was inevitable, what does he do? Choose to choose again? Or just sit back this time? Wait… wait for the wind to change direction?

What would you do if you had this choice? What if every last piece of your experience and every last fraction of your conscience narrated the same story? What if every new beginning had taken you to one, same ending? And what if, today, on this particular day, you just stumbled on all of it altogether. Would it in anyway change your waking thoughts tomorrow? And what about those stifled whispers before you go to sleep, would they be any different tonight? Or would you be willing to choose, to try to break free, to try to find a corner in a circle?

Imagine this. You enter a diner every day. The owner gives a free fruit pie only if you pick the flavor one still left in bulk. But he gives you only one choice and you blow it every time. Or, he says, you can wait and have the piece that is still left over at the end of the day, which by the way will still be damn good! But you just can’t wait. Well, that’s just a billionth of the problems you actually face, right? How about an actual situation? Can you relate to one? I’m sure you can. Would you even consider the “offer” of starting again, when the highest odds are that you’ll be back… back here?

‘Coz in the end, it’s like this… what if all over that I burden you with a load of misguided conscience, with a firm but narrow sense of self-righteousness, with a deep but faint expression of emotional intellect? What if I make you the master of all trades and a jack of none? What if I tell you everything, and do not teach you to speak? What if I make you think that you think, but in fact never let you think?

Would you still make the apparently stupid choice of choosing? The answer supposedly is different for everyone, dependent on whether you derive your power from acceptance or from denial.