I had a vivid dream yesterday. In the dream I was running, my lungs burned, and I ran through the forest which was beautiful, but dangerous. There was no one behind me, yet I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I did not care about my family, friends, anyone else, only thing that mattered was getting out of the forest. I managed just that, and witnessed the spectacle of a white desert, with a huge fence, a boundary made to stop desert invading the forest. I climbed the fence, and watched on a pig running for his life, being chased by a lion in the space between fences. They were way below, and I saw every little thing that they did, amazed at the struggle…
There is another struggle that goes on around me every day. I see groups, no, ghettos, and ghettos between them, men separating themselves from women, young separate from the old, religions separate themselves from everything, and thought separates itself from emotion. They all clamour, and the sound cannot be heard unless you were really looking towards it’s origin. Sometimes I look, sometimes I hear what the voices say, but most other days I ignore them like a buzz of fly on a sunday siesta. I am too lazy and encapsulated to even try and swat the sounds away, so I have learned to live with them.
On some days, I meet others like me, all bystanders of the greatest spectacle that is going around us. We discuss at length about how religion is killing humanity, and how economic reforms could make our pay cheques fatter. We laugh at the irony, and ridicule each other on our baselessness. Then we all get emboldened by the spirits we inhale or consume, and in a moment of passion declare that we will bring about a change. Tomorrow will be a new sun, shining for us, mirrors of truth, and honesty, and equality. Our mirrored glory will make world a brighter place, we declare! And we drink to it, “Nostravia!” Next round of drinks are duly filled, discussing other important aspects of life, such as does music even matter, and what happens after death. We drink till the dawn, and promptly miss our little date with the new sun. I head back home, and go through motions, ignoring the buzz of the metaphorical fly that I cannot swat. I see myself tied, with an urge to scratch my nose. I am helpless, so I concentrate on the mundane, and write a song, I call it blues. I sleep, forgetting everything about the solemn promise I generously bestowed upon humanity, and prepare myself for the old sun.
One pig runs, another runs behind it. A rabbit hops on in the trenches below. I watch on, disinterested, they can’t see me, so they don’t know that their struggle is being witnessed. The lion kills a pig, and runs behind another one. I follow them from my vantage point. I don’t sweat in the desert, and somehow have a cool drink soothing me. I drink, and the lion tears a hole in the rabbit’s neck, warm blood down the throat of the big cat, I take my cool sip. Then the rabbit looks at me. It’s brown eyes, are…smirking. It knows something that I don’t, and I feel threatened by the unknown.
In mornings, I wake up with trepidation, the buzz of the flies, for now they are many, has taken a break. They play a dirty game, and strike at the most opportune moments. When I am having my delightful chocolate chip ice-cream, an african Mal-nourished fly decides to sting my tongue. When I give eulogies about progress in my infra-red equipped urinals, two naked flies with their wing torn try to bite my brain. When I talk to my friends from other countries, about harmony and the idea of India, a swarm enters my mind, replacing their beehive with my gray matter. I scream inside my head, and shake hands with a beautiful girl. I find myself on the fence, and a tiger suddenly looks up. He jumps. I run, and now I know there is no escaping the wrath of those I have watched suffer from my fence. Now the demon is real, and I cannot point fingers at anyone and say it’s not my problem, because it soon will be.,. So I have decided to do something about it. I will start with an apology.
An apology from an insignificant bystander such as me, is also insignificant. Truth is, I will experience a momentary catharsis out of this, and feel that I have done a great job, that I have performed my duty as a writer to condemn. With this false relief I would have magnanimously escaped back to my intellectual cave. If I don’t back my words with actions, I would also move on to my glass house, and we will meet again someday to discuss the perils of modern society. This time though, I am going to shrink the world. Through my selfish pursuit of catharsis, I will do what I can, to the fullest of my capacity. My flaccid ignorance will burn, as I let in the swarm, and listen and through flames of ignorance, I will be reborn again.