Alone...or is it?

Several perspectives of my guilt have pushed me thus far, to ponder on what the meaning of this sedation is. The abstemious feelings, the scanty regard, all conspiring to hold something which blocks the light out, the obtuse calm that I carry, the tranquility that keeps with me now. And this very state is a pain for them, a restless scrambling that unsettles me, is the pursuit that keeps them busy. Such animosity and an profound antagonism from what used to be my company, my solace untill they fell, and still are.

As I sit on this promontory of my thoughts, with a deportment of Atlas, who rests with an eerie passiveness, the silence of his entity is deafening. I look down to see simpletons with shamefully diverse needs that don't have an origin within themselves, driving them to heights of insanity and desperation. Their vehement but inconsequential efforts makes them throw stones, their own volley of insults which heightens their already feverish pitch. They are pushing themselves relentlessly, pushing themselves beyond pragmatism, just to iron out any creases in their regimen, which is quivering with self-doubt. As the stones and rocks breeze past my biological incarnation, some bruising, some fleeting, some flailing wildly, thereby missing and some which strike, make a contact, and is greeted by a simultaneous cheer and satisfaction among them. As I bleed, my blood is the ice on their injuries, numbing their uneasiness, making their egos inflated , chest beating like a ritual to banish all the outcastes. Their carbuncles are self inflicted, as a motif more to the others than to themselves, to show other gullible men and women the solemnity of their aspirations. As I bleed, I find them smiling, whining in pleasure, throwing their limbs in air, in an unabashed reverie.

But I sit unmoved, in a stoic, unflappable demeanor, wonder where will we end up, thinking about the chaos theory which makes the drop in this ocean of anguish into tsunami of rebellion, into a wave of awakening. I get up, shaken back to the present, and walk away, leaving a trail of bloody outlines, a trail of my feet, while they scorn me off as a coward of the culvert, that I show my back to them, that I just cant take anymore. This gives them a otiose premise to beckon me, explaining me my ostracised state. I am not concerned, mysteriously, I am contended if I find the paucity of my peers. Even as I am apathetically aware of my surroundings, the derision which is often as escape for themselves, I am unshackled, but pull myself tighter and harder, not to let their futility find a way into my head, the frugality that their lives have become.

Some people decide which side they are on, some people explain to other, often selfishly, which side to be on, yet some others don't bother, follow others, simply disregarding such elementary and seminal choices which shape their destinies. And then their are others who make their own sides, who walk out of bounds, the trespassers, the consumers of the apple, the curious convalescents, recovering from what they have understood as the blasphemy in this living. These 'dudes' push, they burst the bubble, often do things out of reason, they streamline mankinds approach, often to show the way, to call their brethen and abandon their unfruitful trysts, but also to justify our means, to provide the anti-thesis of all things bright and beautiful, to make us realize the worth of what we have, and to capitalize on that. My mere realisations of such seemingly illusional definitions, relates that longing to break free, to run naked like a child, to laugh for hours at nothing, to walk in the rains. I usually still do, just to hide my tears.

"I know you're out there. I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid... afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell how it's going to begin..."