Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Strangulation

Strangulation. The tepid ropes of the vile education system curled themselves against the Adam’s apple of his throat as he lay writhing in pain from the fever that had engulfed his numb body. He was lying there, sweating profusely, crying silently over the spiritual disaster that was his life. For a long time the potholes of the princely societal acceptance had haunted his smooth ride in life, making every possible bump as painful as can be. Hell cannot even hope to be so sadistic. And his state at the moment was hell. Hell to the truest form.
The ceiling fan moved silently, like a ninja slicing the air around with its assassin’s blade. The air grew old and aged as time passed in the night. Beads of sweat swarmed his face, his body, his hairy legs. The bed seemed too small to hold in his big dilemma. The sheets too tiny to keep him warm to the fullest. He had covered his face, breathing the carbon that he had exhaled only a few moments back. The darkness of the night had only but profoundly bled out dry, only to leave behind dark bruises in the atmosphere that was his room. The same room he lived, no, the same room he existed. Living is a term debatable for this sort of life. An education that has no meaning, pursuing a piece of paper that holds your dignity and walk shamefully if it cannot be achieved. This is the narrow-minded lifestyle that they all lived. His peers. His perpetrators. His parents.
He fell asleep talking to his girlfriend, knowing that he was tired. But the fever that dawned upon him knew not its limits. It wasn’t just a physical ailment; it was much more. The scars and bruises were not left on the outer shell of the human body that was his self, but deeper inside. The scars lay on his mind. The bruises painted his soul. The stink and rot of a lustful craving for self destruction had been clinging onto his back forcefully kept there for a better status in society.
But what would these social bastards know of the pains and penance a little man like him would pay for that unchecked and adulterated dignity? What would his friends know of the agony of anointing ink in the wasteful use of thoughtless words? What would the very non-existent God do if challenged about the pains? There were no answers to these rhetoric doubts that flooded him as he lay, writhing in pain.
Was it the food that sickened him? The tiring day in a disgusting place full of filthy, despicable and tasteless fools who lived only because they had a life, exhausted his living strength? What was it that troubled his soul to the extent that the physical attributes attached had to suffer like Icarus who tried only to fly. It was this. The troubles and times of past that haunted him. Mistakes that had trodden him down before, that were in effect again, at a different pace, at a different magnitude, but mistakes nonetheless.