November 29, 2005


I know this road only too well. Well enough for me to take the turn at an insane speed and still hit the pothole at the right level of impact that will turn the steering wheel a bit counterclockwise first and then clockwise, twisting my arm in the process, all in the matter of a very jerky split second. When you have been traveling for this long, there are no surprises on the road. There is only the predictability of your own travails and the predictability of the myriad variations it manages to play itself out in.

If there is anything worth mentioning, it is only a lack of dreams in this arid landscape. Dreams are for the indulgent, dreams are for those who have the luxury of knowledge of things either better or richer. For the poor, the only dream is to stay alive to live another day, where the only richness is a string of pearls, called life, strung together by days and days of un-splendorous survival. This is the only jewel which will adorn you on your lonely deathbed. There won’t be any mourners and there won’t be any memories, as usual.

When the darkness recedes and the pale light waltzes in at the fork, the shadow, once again, catches up with the soul and starts its merry dance. It darts left and it darts right, never once leaving the soul, boxing it in its own self-created ring. No bets are entertained here, for the outcome is already known, we are watching a fight that is always lost and never won. Legions of lesions mark the face of the embattled and the ring is covered in blood. This is not a fight for those with a heart. You simply cannot win what you already have lost.

Ultimately, there is not a lot you can drive around. Every journey eventually ends in a homecoming of sorts when the old foes return to roost. Even the most experienced of eyes of look out one last time, in vain hope, for that savior to pick up the reins and fight your fight as the starting bell echoes faintly in the distance. Cold comfort follows sheer terror as the punches start to rain. Even regular combat has its own familiarity, be it the unforgivable taste of your own blood in your mouth.