Make-Believe

The Sun rose up with practiced bravado. They let him out today. Years of living in the jail-cell that was his mind had done this to him. Freedom was like an unimaginable unreality that had never got a thought. And one night in prison had done this to him. He couldn't understand. He never really did. Those fucking assholes who gave him hope, gave him reason. He hated them. He fucking hated them.

So he couldn't believe it when they let him out in the morning. That night in jail had totally destroyed the sorry little world that was. The shop-fronts were the same. And the facade of reality remained the filthy mask that it always was. Things might have changed on the inside. There was no reason to believe. No one really gave a shit either way.

And the people had not changed. They still flocked to the market-place to buy rotten food. As the hawker smiled his sly smile. It wasn't noticed. They all smiled the same. Everyone had something to hide. Don't you think?

The empty facades of what was supposed to be, and was not. Of what wouldn't be.

How could he ever trust anyone anymore? How could he go on living like this?

He didn't. That was the answer to his sorry question. To all questions. If you can't, don't. Forget what they try to tell you. Try and try and try and nothing. He had tried. He knew. He had tried pretty hard. And they had locked him up for it.

Those fucking, ungrateful, assholes. Hypocritical bastards. He would show them...

He smiled as he walked on to the fountain. The hysteric expression on his face remained. Even after he had bloodied-up their fountain. His lifeless body, with a bullet-hole through the head floated, smiling maniacally. He got them. In his red, vindictive, redemtion, he floated happily.


Just like that. Gone. She blinked and it was gone. There one minute and not the next. The heat was getting to her, she thought as she made her way from her "work-place" to the local drug-store. The ambiguity of what she had seen was not what she thought of. The ache was her problem. She hadn't got her period yet. It ached more as she walked. What the hell had he
done? Bastard. Some "work-life" she had. HA!! Self-pity didn't even work anymore. What was going on at the fountain?

Who cares?

She had thrown up that morning. Puking wasn't a good sign. What the fuck was happening at the fountain? What was going on?

Walking over to it, she pushed her way in to get a better look. The red waters that greeted her made for nothing. The dead man was the reason she had puked. Why the bloody menstrual period wouldn't come. The bastard. He deserved it. He hadn't even tipped her. She spat in the fountain and went to the hospital to get it fixed.


T.V. was getting boring. There was nothing on. Never was. He had gone on one of his "business trips". To one of those filthy brothels. She knew. Didn't really care. But still loved him. Vaguely, somehow.

"Nothing is real." He had yelled that at her why he drove away. Drunk. Business to take care off.

And the news came on.

Dead. In a fountain. The dead guy was her guy. Fuck. The red was like the cheap tomatoes she bought from the smiling hawker.

It wasn't like they couldn't afford the better ones. They could. But who cared? And now he floated in the cheap-tomato coloured water. His own fucking juice.

She didn't cry. She went to the kitchen.


It was a busy day. He was really fucking tired. He pulled up at the apartments. The neighbours had called the police. Those people had nothing to do. The ex-government, under-pensioned uncle and aunty. Couldn't mind their own business.

Ah, what the hell. At least the bribes were good. He had a DVD player and wide-screen TV. He smiled. Like the rest of them.

Ding-dong. There was obviously no answer. This was just fun.

Breaking the door down, he could smell it. There was the smell of blood. He knew. The TV was switched to the news. The dead-guy in the fountain. Eheh!! He was getting pretty famous. He searched the house. Pretty nice. Filthy rich bastards. He pocketed a nice little crystal statue. It would look nice on his wide-screen TV with DVD player.

The kitchen door was open. She was dead all over the place. He smirked. Can't handle themselves these people. Sad. He called the station. He didn't want to dirty his hands. The coroners could take care of this. This was his new uniform...


OH FUCK!! Not another. That was the second today. It wasn't even the season for dying yet. Some fucker with a bullet-hole in

his skull, in the fountain in the morning. And now some bitch with slit wrists, all over the damn kitchen. He really didn't feel like cleaning up this shit.

Wasn't there anyone he could pay-off to do this for him. Yeah, he knew a guy. And like the rest of them.

He smiled.

From here to there

There wasn't anything you could do, or even try to do. There was nothing and yet it felt like something might have been there. The endless stream of verbose meaninglessness poured out in its constant stream of redundancy.....

I can't take this.....Enough......

Not "God"

God is not he, she, or it. God does not live in heaven. God is not defined or definable. Not an idol or a statue. Not singular. God is not "God".

It is, in my view, that which makes you happy. That which brings you hope. That which dries your eyes when you cry. That which gives you courage. God is that which makes you achieve more than you were capable off. God is nothing. Cannot be anything.

To a sailor lost at sea; a light house. That is God. To a lonely person; a friend. That is God. To a hungry person; food. That is God. To a blind person; sight. That is God.

God is what completes us. Makes us happy and whole. So if you really think of it…..you come to believe; God is not "God"…..



A young man. Sick of it all. His life. Everything. Packs his bags. Stuffs it with food and drink. And leaves home.
The sun beats down. The day is hot. Who is that on the bench by the side of the road?....

An old man. Sick of it all. Being ignored. Treated as a burden. He does not pack his bags, because he has none. He leaves home. Sits down on the bench by the side of the road. Who is that walking towards his bench by the side of the road?......

Thus they meet. Boy young, and man old.

The day is hot. Very hot. The sun scorches the bench and its occupants.

Very hot.

'Would you like a drink of water?' asks the boy. The old man nods. They share the water the boy had brought.

Very hot.

'Um…..can I offer you something to eat? I have a lot…' Another nod. They share the food.

Words are not exchanged. They just sit there. Silent. And yet the presence of the other is felt and is essential to both.
Evening comes. The cool evening breeze with it. That cool evening breeze that can cool even a mind……

They return to their homes. The boy young, and the man old. Cooled by that evening breeze…..
'Where have you been?'…… 'What are you smiling about?'… 'We've been worried sick. You shouldn't run away like that.'

He only smiles some more and says, cooled by the evening breeze, 'Today I met God. On the bench by the side of the road'…….

Itch

Itch



It was a day like any other. Everyone was living their lives. So was he.

He worked at a factory. A factory that made….well…what it was supposed to make. He never really thought about it.

He lived his life. He made his money. Money to live his life. That was all that mattered at the time. That was all…

He never bothered anyone. And they left him alone as well. They lived their lives. He lived his.

Today was not going to be different from the many days before it. It would be another day…of life.

Some might speak of destiny. Not him. He didn't like that. There was no destiny. He controlled he own life and how and where it went. And yet…..he felt like he had no purpose. Like his life was meaningless.
If he died today, another man would replace him at work. Birds would still chirp. The earth would still go around. If he died today……it would not matter. No one would regret his death. No one would remember or miss him.\n\n \nSo how was his life any different from that of anyone else\'s? How was he still himself? How did he retain his identity? \nWhy was he still himself?\n \nHow was he…… "he"?\n \nHe thought of this often. Very often. It was like a splinter in his mind. Like an itch….\nAnd he scratched it.\n \nWhat did tomorrow hold? Was it of any consequence? He would still be "he", and he would still not know why…\n\n \nThus life dragged on. It dragged him along with it. The rope that pulled him along was not tied to him. He held it in his hand. It was his choice. He could hold on or he could let go. It was for him to choose. Just as he pleased.\n",1]
);
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If he died today, another man would replace him at work. Birds would still chirp. The earth would still go around. If he died today……it would not matter. No one would regret his death. No one would remember or miss him.

So how was his life any different from that of anyone else's? How was he still himself? How did he retain his identity? Why was he still himself?

How was he…… "he"?

He thought of this often. Very often. It was like a splinter in his mind. Like an itch….
And he scratched it.

What did tomorrow hold? Was it of any consequence? He would still be "he", and he would still not know why…

Thus life dragged on. It dragged him along with it. The rope that pulled him along was not tied to him. He held it in his hand. It was his choice. He could hold on or he could let go. It was for him to choose. Just as he pleased.
\n \nThere was no destiny. He controlled his own life. It was his. He held the rope. He held the reigns. His.\n \nHappiness and love made the rope. Hate, spite, despair and envy were the wind against him and in his face. He could choose to ignore these. He could hold on to the rope tighter. It was his choice. Not destiny.\n\n \nBut all this still did not answer his question. \n \nWhy was he "he"? Why was he unique? Even if he did make up the general blur of the masses, if you looked closer, you would see him. A dot in the blur. A leaf in the tree. A pixel in the painting of life and time.\n\n \nBut he was there…..that\'s what mattered…\n \nSo today when he woke up. When he lived his life. He looked in the mirror and smiled to himself. He was "he". Still…..\n\n ",1]
);
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There was no destiny. He controlled his own life. It was his. He held the rope. He held the reigns. His.

Happiness and love made the rope. Hate, spite, despair and envy were the wind against him and in his face. He could choose to ignore these. He could hold on to the rope tighter. It was his choice. Not destiny.

But all this still did not answer his question.

Why was he "he"? Why was he unique? Even if he did make up the general blur of the masses, if you looked closer, you would see him. A dot in the blur. A leaf in the tree. A pixel in the painting of life and time.

But he was there…..that's what mattered…

So today when he woke up. When he lived his life. He looked in the mirror and smiled to himself. He was "he". Still…..

\nHe would continue to be "he". Till he let go the rope, or till it let him go.\n \nBut for now, the splinter was firmly lodged. The itch still itched. And he scratched it….\n \n \n \nRiddle\n \n \n \n \np.s. thanks for reading.......\n \ntell me wht you think.....\n \n(i\'m soooo glad ppl cant hit ppl over the net....at least not yet....hehe..."


He would continue to be "he". Till he let go the rope, or till it let him go.

But for now, the splinter was firmly lodged. The itch still itched. And he scratched it….

No one smiled

They did not have children because they could not afford to have children. The little that they made wasn’t even enough for one of them to live off.

The job he had as a labourer did not fetch much. Working for less than minimum-wage. She did her bit by doing the housework for people when she could. Sometimes making garlands of wild flowers and selling them in for practically nothing.

All this. The lack of everything. The absence of a decent home and a square meal.

And yet…..they were happy. Not content. But happy. There was a difference. Slight. But it was there.

He opened the “door” of his “house”. Walked in quietly. She was sitting in the corner of the tin house. Quietly, she watched as he sat down by the oil lamp and had a drink of water. The day was coming to a close. Another day would come. Another day of the same life. Another day in poverty. Not content. But happy.

As he looked up he saw her tear-streaked face. There was nothing he could do. He just turned to her and said in what he thought would be an optimistic note, “Don’t worry….someone up there will smile down on us……”

“Up there”, no one smiled.

The seemingly endless cycle was to go on. On and on. Until one day things changed.

The sun had set. Almost. The pinkish glow on the horizon still gave enough light to see. Just about.

The “door” burst open. He walked into his “house”. Something was different. Very different.

“I got a job…” he said it with a genuine note of triumph and optimism. She didn’t notice.

“You already have one….” she said quietly.

“No…” he replied quickly “This one’s better.”

She looked up. Her eyes, for the first time in what seemed like forever, registered a hint of hope. Just a little.

“It’s in a government office……A lowly office job. But that’s about as good as it will get eh?” he gave a slight smile.

Not content. Happy.

She ran into his open arms. As he held her tightly to him, he said “See?......someone up there in smiling…”

“Up there” no one smiled.



xxxxxxxxxx


Years later. He was dead. She lived off the pension from his “lowly office job”.

They had been content and happy. Both. He had got a promotion after only a few years. He made enough. Just about. They were able to move out of their tin shack. Into a reasonable house. A house. Not a “house”

And so they had been content and happy. Both.

They believed. In something. It had kept them afloat in the sea of poverty and despair. Someone, to them, was “up there”, smiling. They floated.

And yet….. All the while. “Up there”….no one was there, to smile.
So…..no one smiled….

Return to nothingness

………….ring……………ring…………………….

The call of the alarm clock. A sign for him to go back to his world of fulfilment…. of his own or other peoples' dreams…

He wakes up.

Today is just another day. Like the one before it or the one that is to come after it. No different. No surprises. Just the same thing. Over and over.

His unending quest to fulfil his dreams. Or at least what are supposed to be his dreams. He can't be sure. The only thing he knows is that he is to follow the path he followed yesterday. The path that he will follow tomorrow. The path of which he cannot see more than what he is shown by the world or those around him. He walks blindly on. To fulfil.

He wakes up.

The myriad of life around him is no more than a blur. A passing wind that he has no time to stop and think about. His sights are fixed, on his goal. Or is it really his….?
He never asks himself this question. It is his. It has to be his.

The years of his life he spent in ignorance of his 'dream' are few. From the time he could read and write, he has been told what to do. How to do it. When to do it. All his questions have been answered before he asked them. He never needed to. They were always there to tell him. To 'guide' him. To make his 'dream'. To shape it according to their past failures and successes. To make him walk in their footsteps or to attain what they did not or could not. They make his dream.

So he has never needed to ask "Why?" or "How?". Because the answers have always been there. He never asked. Never knew the joy of finding out. Never. All he knows is that he must Fulfil…

In his seemingly mindless quest, he attains some parts of his 'dream' some are left out, by his faults or by his infirmity. Not the fault of anyone else. It is his. Only his. The load that is placed on him by others is now only his to bear. He bears them as his own. Because to him they are his own. The 'dream' is his not anyone else's. His, only his. How could it be anyone else's?

Then…when he enters the world he realizes, that the rest of the world has stolen his 'dream'. They all want what he had and has wanted all along. He does not understand. How is this possible?

He does not understand that he has to leave the 'path'…. to make his own. But he knows no other. To him, the whole world is centred on his past. What he has learnt. Nothing more.
He cannot leave it. He doesn't know how to. He continues to live his life along the 'path' they showed him all those years ago. Or was it yesterday? Confused. Afraid to stay …afraid to leave…How is it possible?

And so he is sucked in, like the rest of them, into the reality of reality. He becomes one of the many that make up the masses. Those faceless many that are there because they are there. No rhyme. No reason. Just there to be there. Just……there.

Now he lives like he did. Yesterday. Yester-year. He live today for tomorrow. Tomorrow for the next day. And so on. He lives for the sake of living. Because he is there. Just…there.

Tomorrow…..

And finally when there are no more tomorrows. When he is done waiting for then next day. For the same thing. When his time is up. Race is run. When he has achieved as much of his dream…..of everyone's dream…..as he has…

He disappears. Not remembered. Not forgotten. He blends back into the nothingness from which he had once come. From which we all come. To which we will all go.

He. Not an exception…does his duty…was once 'there' and is now gone…. returns to nothingness…