Vandalism

Another day is born into the awareness of the unknown, fitting into the most unique kind of frivolities and into the dynamics of racism or sarcasm. In the midst of a crowd of dead souls, I stand aware of the brutal arrows of sexual intimacy thrown towards me. I deny the constant clutches of invitations, as a hero denies his right to submission.

"I thought you could use some company?"

I was brought back from the spell of dreams to the bitterness of the real world, putting my entire realm to one fixed position, his eyes. Words become an authentic power of philanders. The only reliable power I was thought to have, was lost in the wilderness of sensations and of deceitful ideologies.

"I saw you alone and thought you could use some company," he said.

"I like your eyes, they deceive your looks."

I quote, as a mistress of mysteries. I was partly aware of my camouflage of truthful nature. What I was wondering, to receive was a reconciliation of my remark. But he said, "I like your voice, it’s righteously captivating."

The world is full of centered theories, manipulative ideas, forceful cultural values, to which people fall prey. I became a victim of vandalism. I had just shed tears on the burial of my egoistic, linguistic, over pouring ambitions and wild desires. Every thing seemed a simple equation now, with each sides balanced.

"How do people walk on stars?"

The question caught me off guard. Smiling my most enigmatic smile, I said, "Bare feet."

I could have come up with thousands of ways to prove my reply. When life ends, it’s the death of the body, but when desires and dreams die, it’s the death of the soul.

Leaders, fundamentalists, fanatics, monarchs, democrats, fighters, rebels, Casanovas, admirers, womanizers all pave way to forces they believe in. The relinquish believe of their believe is belief. A blind magnetism of lust controlled by unarmed retaliation of victory on the cost of annihilation, treachery, destruction and death, is what wins them respect and supporters.

"What forces you to deviate from the present?"

He asks, as if reading my mind with perfect music and harmony, as possessed by his own.

"The past."

I answer, as a mistress ready to loose every belonging, just to die in the arms of her beloved.

"The past is uncertain, trust the present."

He says in the voice of a mentor trying to convince his disciple to risk the doubt of skepticism and follow him.

"My existence is what is uncertain."

I say, trying not to get intoxicated by his spell of exotic and sudden impulses of passion.

A small feeling generates in the hidden chambers of the heart and becomes an over powering velocity, which accelerates the force of bursting temptation and quest of dangerous obsession. The craze of the unknown, the belligerent thrust of what lies ahead becomes a challenge it self. Which in turn sets free, obedience and monotony from the deep dungeons of their existence. The desire to reach the unapproachable, conquer the indomitable, feel the infeasible, touch the divine, own the eccentric and posses the speculative, start to interest me.

"Meet me at five in the evening tomorrow?"

He stands there inquisitive of my answer. I, on the other hand getting all my wits in position and trying desperately to come up with an infallible answer, say,

"Y… Yes."

I know what I’m doing. I am melting into vandalism