One Rainy Day

It was raining incredulously. The omnipresent gray instilled an unwanted melancholy in his ageing heart. He stood on his toes and tried to figure out what the outside world was like. The shade of green, the scent of damp earth. A single window was the only link between him and the globe. This was precisely the feeling shared amongst all prisoners. He was not in the mood to reminisce. The past was dead and wrenching out bygone-emotions would not make a difference.

He wanted to digress away from the point where all his thoughts converged. The sound of acrid rain was mirth to him once. He would spend much of his time staring out of his window, looking at the drenched earth. His room --reverberating with the noise of Muddy Waters. Rain played which cord in his inner mind was unknown to him. He would feel a twitch. He would weave another dream. Lost in his own solitude, he would conjure up the most profound human emotions. Bathe in them and ooze out satisfaction. Rain was his savior; it triggered his latent, unattended sentiments.

This caustic cell locked up his essential faculty to weave. He was here lying with all the scum his life has collected. The sound of the downpour was constricting. He knew this is transitory. He wanted to trap some of it for further consumption; but human science comes up with a preservation technique for those units, which are currency-dependent. Conservation of the monsoon sound was never necessary. Some filthy poets may have found it very amusing but poets are one pseudo group. The sound was no more heard. The deafening silence locked up the obscured lanes of innovation. He was one with the crowd.

This prison is specifically designed for this purpose. It makes you claustrophobic. Each day, you are cajoled to take a dive into the sea of animalism. Be one with the beasts. Demarcate passion from practicality. Then char the passion quotient. The null thus created is replenished with the right dose of superficiality.

Thus, he was captured. What captured him is inconsequential. What matters is his progress. His seed of desire to cherish certain impulses was ready to be destroyed. The plant, which the seed bore, is trivial; it may be an annoying weed. However, one can’t foresee his passion’s desperation. This weird seed may grow into something noteworthy in the reign of future. Therefore, its important to slay it. Another important aspect is the intellect. Intelligence is welcomed with arms wide open. Nevertheless, intellect is undesirable. The blithe intellect comes in the way of cliché practices. Normal minds would never want that. The contrast is a great peril. Thereby, they are locked.

The excessive materialism clubbed with a dash of swank is the ideal, which they are taught to follow. Vague sarcasm and vainglorious wit is distilled out of their existence. Winners are forged. The glitterati of socialites. Lust is made to trickle down from the top of their heads. Drenched in its holy flavour, men of the world are created. They know their survival strategies.

The certain fellow we are talking about was still serving his tenure. He was chained to the still numbness. He had a way out. A way that led to illumination. He wanted to challenge the system and knew to challenge the system you need to be in it. Regarding the bug of asymmetry and eccentricity, it is incurable. He was confident about that. He reinstated his lost vigour and ended the war. Apathy was his key. The key, which opened all the locked attics of realization. He was an evolved being, who rediscovered himself and escaped the clutches of lucid delirium.