A troubled soul
The road merges into blue, I don't know where. It's already a bluish road, I don't know why. It's a tar road, yet it has more the asphalt than the coke; on both sides is the barren landscape, a wheatishly barren landscape, and it is only I who's whizzing by.
No idea whether I am stationary or I am whizzing by. No idea whether this is the road that I was directed to, when I asked that man, just a while ago. I don't know what's begun happening to my memory - I distinctly remember him as a pock-marked man, with a sly leer on his face, I especially hated his mannerism of wiping his wet lips with his shirt cuff, a cuff bedraggled, open and soiled at the edges, a button loosely dangling. A gold button, that I hated the instant my gaze fell on it - the whole time that man gave me directions so civilly, I felt that I was talking to the button, as if that piece of pretentious gold was ordering me what to do with my life, with my roads, with myself, how to dispose of myself. What right had that button to govern me - after all, wasn't it a lifeless thing? How can I even ask that? It was a lifeless thing, yes, it was - yes, but then, why was it that all the time it was that button, that cuff button, who was talking to me, instead of that man.
Oh, I hate this road going on. Why does it go on? Why does it not end; it doesn't seem to go anywhere - who constructed it? why, I cannot imagine. There's not even a pothole that they have left somewhere - it's always the same. In fact, it has always been the same. I do seem to remember though that there will come some sort of a turn, or some sort of a bridge to cross - there will be then some mud to look over, some relief, when I cross it over. But then, there would be another one like this. It has always been like this.
Sometimes, I have dreams. Yes, since there is no one else, I can afford to dream, without any rashness involved. Yes, I do dream sometimes. Though, I don't always like to. They are always of people like me, who also are on the roads. But they always seem to enjoy it, laugh, and they even stop and urinate and cool their radiators. I don't seem to remember doing this even in a dream - I don't think I have ever stopped. And they are never lonely - but then, they are only dreams. I know very well that it is only I here - there's no one else. I can see to the horizon, and I know that I have covered all the ground to the other pole - there was no one that I met. No, there's no chance that I did miss anyone. No! I don't think that even while dreaming I would have missed anyone. So, it's only me. There is, after all, no one else.
But, you see, I am now weary. Though there is no one, it doesn't matter to me as much. Once upon a time, it used to - I loved to speed up, I used to love the open space, I used to love no forbiddings. But, I now don't want to be myself - I now want to be my dream. I don't want to have this real existence - I would want to become someone's dream, if I could then stop and look at the sunrise, I could look at the metallic shine on the hood, I could urinate and look at the sunshine piercing through the curved bow.
No idea whether I am stationary or I am whizzing by. No idea whether this is the road that I was directed to, when I asked that man, just a while ago. I don't know what's begun happening to my memory - I distinctly remember him as a pock-marked man, with a sly leer on his face, I especially hated his mannerism of wiping his wet lips with his shirt cuff, a cuff bedraggled, open and soiled at the edges, a button loosely dangling. A gold button, that I hated the instant my gaze fell on it - the whole time that man gave me directions so civilly, I felt that I was talking to the button, as if that piece of pretentious gold was ordering me what to do with my life, with my roads, with myself, how to dispose of myself. What right had that button to govern me - after all, wasn't it a lifeless thing? How can I even ask that? It was a lifeless thing, yes, it was - yes, but then, why was it that all the time it was that button, that cuff button, who was talking to me, instead of that man.
Oh, I hate this road going on. Why does it go on? Why does it not end; it doesn't seem to go anywhere - who constructed it? why, I cannot imagine. There's not even a pothole that they have left somewhere - it's always the same. In fact, it has always been the same. I do seem to remember though that there will come some sort of a turn, or some sort of a bridge to cross - there will be then some mud to look over, some relief, when I cross it over. But then, there would be another one like this. It has always been like this.
Sometimes, I have dreams. Yes, since there is no one else, I can afford to dream, without any rashness involved. Yes, I do dream sometimes. Though, I don't always like to. They are always of people like me, who also are on the roads. But they always seem to enjoy it, laugh, and they even stop and urinate and cool their radiators. I don't seem to remember doing this even in a dream - I don't think I have ever stopped. And they are never lonely - but then, they are only dreams. I know very well that it is only I here - there's no one else. I can see to the horizon, and I know that I have covered all the ground to the other pole - there was no one that I met. No, there's no chance that I did miss anyone. No! I don't think that even while dreaming I would have missed anyone. So, it's only me. There is, after all, no one else.
But, you see, I am now weary. Though there is no one, it doesn't matter to me as much. Once upon a time, it used to - I loved to speed up, I used to love the open space, I used to love no forbiddings. But, I now don't want to be myself - I now want to be my dream. I don't want to have this real existence - I would want to become someone's dream, if I could then stop and look at the sunrise, I could look at the metallic shine on the hood, I could urinate and look at the sunshine piercing through the curved bow.
posted by ankyuk at
8:29 am
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