Out in the open

windows

Fancy French windows—

an illusion of freedom

for corporate slaves.

Hand over

“Listen up lads, this is an important mission. It’s time you face your purpose in life. Take responsibility and shine through the hardship. Remember, your sweat, your sighs, and trials make the world better. Commit your body to the task and your soul to god.”

Closing his speech, the Commander walked away from the twenty-year-olds who clutched firearms and seared gloves and wore helmets smeared with dry blood and sweat of once-comrades.

From behind them he spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Men standing by ready for orders, Sir.”

When the approval came, the Commander committed six-hundred souls to the devil.

Gone too soon

The funny thing about nature is that although it’s everlasting, most of it’s phenomena aren’t. Take the sun, for instance. It rises each morning and sets each evening, and yet no two sunrises or sunsets are the same. Every day, every moment is all new. If that’s not transient what is?

transient
The sun and its momentary reflections.

Reading now

reading

Books never cease to amaze. I’m reading such a book at the moment—one that came with trusted recommendation. I’ve been reading it far longer than my usual pace, but I attribute that to work and insufficient leisure. Nevertheless, it’s the first time that reading a book for a prolonged period hasn’t bothered me. Other times it happened, I got bored and lost my involvement soon enough. This one, however, keeps me coming back every evening, even if it’s only for a couple of pages.

Somedays I don’t even have the time to read through and appreciate an entire chapter. Even then, the narrative is captivating enough to grip my curiosity. It’s not a detective story—there’s no Sherlock-like whiz running around in handsome overcoats solving crimes and annoying cops all over the place. It’s not a romantic comedy with a bride to be, a confused groom to become, and fidgety bridesmaids arguing over nail colours. It’s not even adult fiction with the heroine trying to battle her adolescent pangs and a drug addled mother. All those story lines are common—I’ve seen them in movies, I’ve heard about them from friends who’ve been to the movies, and I’ve read them myself or reviews of such books.

The one I’m reading now, however—which shall remain unnamed until I finish it—is about a woman and how she’s accepted what’s become of her reality. And each page leaves me a terrified. So much so that I turn the page by instinct to find out what happens next. I relate to the main character, but it’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want a life like hers and yet I can feel her terror, her disgust, and her mindset carrying over to my own. When she squirms, I do too. When she glows for the tiniest of victories, so do I. As she turns away from the people who command her, as do I. I feel her and know her as if she’s me. And in the fleeting second in between turning the page, I wonder—in terror—she could well be me. And that’s what keeps me going, wanting to get to the end of the story.

Despite my eagerness to know what happens at the end of the story, the build up so far also has me apprehensive. What if it doesn’t end well? I won’t want to read through, to live through, this woman’s life only to figure out that she ends up with what she endured: disappointment. And so a part of me wishes this story would go on, that the weirdness would continue—ironic though it seems.

Stay tuned for more detailed observations.

Out of place

Unwanted for life

as dog in a cat’s party—

the pesky meddler.