Part 9 – Silence of the Watchmaker’s Shop

2 02 2008

Simple truths can make you more lonely, just like simple lies can change your life. For inevitably, all you are or rather all people know you from, are merely the words you speak, the actions you perform and the opinions you inculcate in one’s mind. It’s funny how the human mind finds it hard to believe in irrational truth but obeys blindly to rational lies. Every being is like the floating tip of an iceberg, for 99% of who you are is oblivious to the common eyes. So, you might as well draw your own picture of yourself, as long as it is not hard to believe in, and others would follow blindly. But sometimes one can fall into their own trap, depending on how subtle they have been. For the flagrant lie finds no hiding place under the hard spotlight of plain good sense. Yet, a fiercer light would result in only fogging out what would otherwise have been obvious.

Life is the roulette table that spins around lies more than truths, you place your bets and hope it doesn’t ruin every single part of who you are. It’s a rather difficult idea to follow, but when you come to think about it really, how many times in your life have you wished you had lied? As the truth had done nothing than betray its own reputation. Truth always prevails they say. In a world made of pure hypocrisies, truth is the hermit in the tattered robe; respected by some, followed by few, but ignored by the rest. These words might sound pessimistic, justifying the contrary would be utterly juvenile, yet the world’s most followed beliefs inconsistently revolve around conspiracy theories and forged dogmas. And the clock tics on the wall are here but to bear witness to centuries of human decadence.

Sometimes he found his own troubles so pointless as compared to all the miseries in the world. Where one is crying over a broken heart while somewhere else someone is running on the frayed streets of a bombarded city like a madman with a dead child in his hands. Surely the level of pain and distress is not comparable, but the facts are unalterable. Much too often we overlook others in moments of our own deprivation. The physics of core human interactions defies all rationality and logic. Even the most endowed man would fiercely capitulate in front of others’ pernicious agony, but would wildly expect a helping hand in return. And funnily keep complaining about the unjust nature of all human miseries. Its purely the behavior of the human psyche; everything we see seems more bound to happen to others than to our own self, specially when the anguish is of a very high calibre, just like he would never have imagined himself in this state, not even in his mildest nightmares.

Being nailed to a hospital bed felt like all the oxygen has been sucked from the air. He was once bestowed with all the gratitude of nature, but yet led a life full of plasticine figurines dancing to the tunes of made up stories. Since his early childhood, he was faced with the undeniable truth that life is nothing like fairy tales, where one shall live happily ever after. We all seem to be in the pursuit of happiness, like an adventurer in the quest of a hidden treasure, but in reality we are all but pirates pilling riches from others. The realisation of the crude nature of the human mind was to the 10 year old kid, what kryptonite was to his favorite super hero. The small twig of his existence cracked under the downpour of reality.

He imagined how would it be if he could travel back in time, and meet the child he once was. He tried to weigh the outcome of such an encounter, thinking about the speech he would formulate to the 10-year-old kid he was. Maybe warn himself from impending calamities of life, or sketch a pathway for a more promising future. But was he really prepared for the violent changes that this would imply? The chances that he would have believed in himself are rather slim, yet the expanse of a 10-year-old’s imagination cannot really be quantified in measurable proportions. Would it change anything to prevent someone from doing something, or would the resulting chain of events only end up in accelerating the whole process?

His life was a painted canvas furnishing an immense dark room. A multi dimensional canvas painted with finite colours randomly picked up by reason from an infinite palette, with his emotions as the only guide for each brush stroke.  We all have a canvas to paint. No matter how small, extravagant,  exuberant, simplistic or irrationally alluring. This natural process of self modeling even if not imposed by nature, finds itself deeply rooted in its mechanism.  But if the final masterpiece does not comply to the expected picture, who is to face the finger?


Part 8 – Of Fire and Ice…

26 12 2007

How does it feel to be imprisoned? At first, all seems so confusing, you fight to keep yourself focused, to adapt, to understand while battling against waves of incoming regret, remorse, endless questions, fear of change, fear of survival, speculations about freedom… Each passing second is an ordeal, reminding yourself of where you are. Then comes the suffocation, the need for more air, the natural need of freedom. A word that been been carved in history by so many blood stains must surely be considered the most fundamental need. But throughout the process, this word becomes barely a myth, an intangible speculation of the mind. Then comes the final phase, survival and adaptation. Where the mind gradually gives in to the new state it is now in. The whole process resumes to the sole battle of conscience against time. You can fight against time, but you find yourself deprived of all means in front of your own conscience.

And who could imagine a worse prison than your own organic envelop. A prison cell does not deny you the ability of speech or mobility. It just confines you to a restricted space. But as he lay there, a prisoner of his own shell, a prison cell seemed more welcoming. He tried to adapt himself, slowly evolving into another sphere. Where he was simply a shadow of himself, living on memories and a fragment of hope; innocent, fragile, naked hope. Hope streamlined to project the vision of a possible future. A future for which life has constantly been putting up challenges to mold each nut and bolt of his being. The world spins fast, but time is a heavy load to carry, and the pressure of each passing second was slowly distorting the integrity of his speculations about a tangible future. Soon, he was just a lifeless robot, programmed only for a confined amount of simple tasks.

The human brain finds its merit in its highly developed faculty of conforming to repetitive tasks. Some find it the haven which helps to escape the harsh reality of their simple existence. Routine induces a weird sense of security. The mechanical day to day routine, in a way, makes you lose track of the time. And this infinite replicated chain of events procures a peculiar assurance inspired by the predictability of each occurrence. You feel nothing is going to change for the worse as each single process has been reviewed, experienced and made obvious through repetition.

As the days passed, each one merely being a crude replica of the previous one, his body gradually capitulated, adjusting to the present scenario. But his mind continued on functioning at double regime, endorsing unimaginable fears and phobias. The psychological pain outran the physical pain till the latter became literally unfathomable. Although the morphine and the panoply of drugs constituting his daily dosage did somehow contribute to his condition, his imagination was a far more helpful instrument to break away from the daily trauma.

Imagination is the undaunted magical realm of dreams and fantasies. It knows no barriers except for that of the mind itself. You can be who you want to, where you want, when you want. It’s more than even reason itself can ponder upon. He described his imagination as the domain where conscience and sub conscience overlapped, reality and imaginary fought in fierce rivalry and at the same time, embraced in humility. His imagination flooded each and every part of his being, it was his essence. Whatever he saw or thought, endorsed by logic, reason or pure fantasy, each and every parcel of his mind was bathed in his imagination.

Sometimes he preferred not to describe what he could see, simply because all the words put together would result in an ineffectually undermining outlook; mere gibberish as compared to the picture sculpted in his mind. His imagination had the most crucial role in his life, and now it was all his life. That’s where he was now living in; a world made of memories and mysteries, a world he himself created to escape the crude reality, which paradoxically, he was the sole responsible for.

Memories can haunt you more than the spookiest of ruins. And he was himself far more wrecked than a ruin, living a life which he knew nothing of, trusting his faith in the one who was writing the script of his destiny. He felt like a coin being tossed around to prove the malicious incapabilities of fate. He had moved far beyond the point he had expected, striving against pain and delusions of a torn mind, fighting against the echoes of his stained past. The fear of of death had long given way to exasperation and sheer disinterest of the present. The only thing he could now wish for, was to hear the clock stop ticking…

Part 1 – The Stranger In The Morning Rain

6 03 2007

The drizzling sound of the rain faded away as his mind was trespassing the realms of reality. Keeping a constant pace, he slowly made his way through the muddy paths that stretched in front of him. The raindrops didn’t seem to reach his conscious mind. He could feel that he was completely drenched, and yet in a weird kind of way, it made no difference. Assumptions inspired by distant memories guided his uncertain thoughts. Nothing could make reality more meaningless.

His torn, dirty jeans and sleeveless t-shirt sticking on his skin, he stepped on the small platform in front of him. The view was spooky, spiced with the sound of gushing water hitting the rusting iron supports of the old bridge. Echoes of ancient remembrances were haunting his mind and the present seemed so blurred. He stood there for nearly half an hour, trying to put some order in his thoughts which were now more hectic. The cold winter wind made him more numb. He could no more feel his fingers.

Taking a deep breath, he put down his old tattered bag, and stretched his arms to feel the wind flow between his fingers. That always made him feel better. “If only I could fly… maybe… today…”. Images of a lifetime were flashing by at a sickening crescendo. Images of pain, sorrow, happiness, guilt, exasperation… A life built around scrap wood…

It was getting dark outside… as if the sky shared his feeling… like earlier when the clouds showered their few tiny drops on his bare skin… it was the only thing that made him smile…

His thoughts, random and uncertain, haunted him to the point where he could not differentiate the imaginary form reality. It was the way he has always been. Somewhere inside still lives the small boy who fantasizes to be the super hero who can solve anything. But now it was not the case. His memories flashed by like the scenery rushing by… he could see his reflection in the water… somewhere he felt he wasn’t what he was supposed to be… he sometimes felt he would never know what was expected from him… Sometimes, he never really ever focused on what he should do… It always came by intuition, an instinctive urge guiding his acts. He always knew he was not perfect, and everyday he realizes to which extent.

Rain has always fascinated him. Like a million pearls falling from the heavens, playing their own music, blurring your mildest phobias and propelling you far from the hassle of everyday life. Time itself seems to stop in front of this beautiful manifestation of nature, as it bears witness to all our dreams and thoughts, inspiring the most hardened soul. Countless poems and songs have been written throughout history but none seems to precisely describe the feeling that rain can inspire.

Since his early childhood he has always told himself to hold on to what he always has believed in. But now, it seems that despite what he can have in mind, the world around would never understand the exactitude of his thoughts. It might seem a bit pretentious to others, so he always kept what he felt deep inside. People don’t want to know, just because they all want to be in their own world. And knowledge can be a terrible thing for someone who has lived all his life trying to convince himself that conforming to the rules, is the only true path of life.

He knows he won’t ever be able to change that. ‘Cause it’s the way some have found to cope with existence… and he had no right to question the decisions of others concerning their own lives. Besides, he was only human… he had faults of his own; things about himself he tried to understand everyday… but who really cares?

And with one last breath, he made his dream come true… he felt free… like a bird… just like he wanted it to be…