Measure Of A Man

Men, who follow their hearts, compromising their metier, on which the assurance of a brighter, more reliable future may be built, are not cowards. They carry the expectations, counter-tendencies, and curses of many. Both of people who are propitious to their cause and also invidious ones, for whom its a matter of destroying in wake of subsuming satisfaction in place of their achievements. But could these men, be unflogged, kept unscathed, from all contumelies and conspiracies? With their own beginnings in a dire state of seeking attention, they are torn apart between their mind and their hearts. What should they follow? Which way to go? Many answers that they seek, only quitened and delayed from perseverance, such caveats surface time and again to threaten their cause. Each day they brave two battles, losing and winning on both ends. One excorsises the ghost of the other. A dash of skill, of sheer dedication and consummation, and a gash that lacerates deep into the mental tissue, tissue of conscience, bleeding all veins of promises, and such is the shredding pain of being tautened beyond redemption. They cant ignore either ends, never can they be willing to let go of the better of the two evils. One is ignoring their inherent responsibilities and the other is depraving from that chord of your mien that breathes as your mind does. Can ever remorse be existent, can ever a wrong but a circumstantial right set things straight?

Try to find answers. Try to contemplate. On the fates of such a man, who started out as an integral entity but changed into someone else, somewhere along the way. He could not return, neither could he stop himself from looking back. All he could do was to question the recalcitrant nature of human will. All he could feel was being mesmerised by the sheer conviction, which destiny infuses. All he could lament was the the tug on his legs, pulled by a child, a child in time, lost in his way to his destination. All he could reflect, was his ownself in the unquiet haze, acerbic with self doubt, that promenade in the eyes of that child, and yet he had to ignore his simulacrum, and move on. All he could do was to speak in whispers, to the ones who could hear his mind, and the monologue meant like a scream to the same watchful eyes, perhaps mocking him for his dilemma.

But to continue is the only assurance he has, the only path visible, whose designs he can ever think to even gauge. But still, he has a choice. To return? Like a drug, it hallucinates everytime the child tugs his clothes, the wind slaps his face, everytime he receives the ire of the fake demigods that are annihilated with his determination. Their end would be a side effect, like their existence was all along. But to carry on, is the only way he could ever think of defeating, and countering that maniac of a design, that looms like a maze, but still there is one way, and every step makes him cheer and wince. Perhaps, he could pick up the child and caress his back, hug him to his chest, protecting him from the malice and chicanery of these falsified and wounded erstwhile demigods, coeval to the beginning of his epochal journey. A journey that knows only the end, no one in tow and no two ways about it. Bombarded and weathered, though never scared or deterred, these men move, constantly, their steps with the robustness of karmic chants, are regular. Never does any light, any darkness, any noise, any quiet, any voice, any cry, any laugh, any sight, deceiving or otherwise, could have their bodies turned, except their heads, ever alert and informed about their surroundings. Such are legends, among themselves. Who create benchmarks for themselves, perhaps known only to themselves.
Amen to such a man, who could say what he means, whose blessings and curse can change the course of things to happen, because, he can.