typewritten love

This is how I picture it:

He leans over a glossy, beautiful typewriter, that basks in its vintage glory. He puckers his face in concentration, as he goes over the dozens of requests made by complete strangers. He leans back. He, maybe, sways his head a bit to the left and chews at the end of the pencil he has nibbled at for the past hour, while creativity did its rounds inside his mind. He, then, maybe, just sighs a little; nay, not of exasperation, nor of boredom, but of the inability to choose one of the many requests. He finally picks one that he believes will resonate the most. He straightens up. He mounts the paper on the platen. And, then he starts pecking away at the keys.

The ambiance of the room, where he writes on his beloved typewriter, is fascinating at that moment – the moment when thak thak, the sound of the keys, impregnates the air; the moment when he pushes each key, as lovingly as an artist would paint strokes with a brush; the moment when he  types each word with the realization that somewhere, someone may get inspired by it.

And, once he finishes typing, he smiles.

He knows he has typed something meaningful.

——————————————————————————————————————-

This is what he typed for me.

Thank you for the love, Typewriter.

a john doe.

he lurked somewhere behind in their shadows.
unknown. unnoticed. unheard of.
for many, he had just been a stepping stone. a drab rock, fit only for them to stomp on.
for some, he had just been a catalyst. a pitiful substance that never changed itself, yet changed their lives.
for some, he had just been an abandoned puppy. a pathetic, lost creature who was  petted and stroked and fondled for some time until forgotten again.
for a few, he had just been an object of ridicule. a whimpering lowlife, a prey that always managed to get caught on the hook.
for a few, he simply did not exist. avoided, maybe. a void, definitely.

a silhouette. a fleeting shadow. a forgotten face.
that is all he was.

in life.

and.
in death.

a john doe, eik laawaris laash.

 

At Crossroads

“I cannot be fixed. I … am too … broken for that to happen.”

He was curled up at a crossroads; his hands tightly wound around his torso, his grimy face angled downwards in a pitiful self-embrace.

“Look at me. Look at me!” She urged, as she knelt beside him. She grabbed at his hands and tried to pull him up. He would not budge: like a stubborn rock that refuses to yield to sea and erode.

“I can hear it. I can hear its pounding footsteps all the time. It is out there. Always out there to take me back in its clutches,” he let go of his shoulders that he had fiercely hugged a moment before; and placed his hands over his ears to shut out the noisy approach of his predator.

She looked anxiously at the road that led to south and began pulling at him again. Her repeated attempts finally succeeded in dragging him up from the fetal position he had succumbed to in some forgotten instinct of protection and safe harbor.

His limbs in disarray, his eyes shut, he whimpered. She took his hands in hers; and leaned forward.

“It is called the Past for a reason. It has gone, happened, been done with. It is upon you whether you allow It to revisit or not. For it would be always out there: hungry, desperate for that moment of weakness when you would slip and roll back into its embrace.”

He opened his eyes feebly; and looked at the kind eyes that stared back at him.

“This is where you decide which road you want to take,” she whispered.

“Who are you? and why would you want to help me?” he asked.

She smiled kindly.

“Time is there to help heal every wound.”

And then, she pointed towards the road that twisted into the north; a white direction sign was perched in the asphalt with the word ‘Future’ emblazoned upon it.

Suffocation

Third Person: She

She saw them push him into the pipe: many times smaller than his size. They huffed and puffed, swore and cursed, twisted and turned him like a corkscrew, edging him inch by inch into the narrow, tunneled out prison. It seemed a tedious task, this relentless shoving, yet they persevered. With an unbridled determination, they continued their efforts, in squeezing him inside a space that was anything but spacious.

What drove them to commit such madness? to inflict such agony? She did not know.

Perhaps, they derived pleasure from tormenting him. Perhaps, they appeased some carnal impulse of brutality. Perhaps, they just wanted to gain the satisfaction of pushing someone to their limits. Perhaps they just wanted to suffocate all vigor, all vitality, all life out of his veins.

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Second Person: They

Numbness stole through their bodies, sneaking from the poisonous crevices of their hearts into their bloodstream. They did not feel his pain. They did not have the compassion to feel his pain. They had been blindfolded into doing the wrong by the sense of their right. And, so they pushed and pushed and pushed – a mantra that knew no end.

What drove them to commit such madness? to inflict such agony? They thought they knew.

A thousand excuses, they thought of. All balderdash.

——————————————————————————————————————

First Person:  He

He felt his bones crunch, his innards clench, as the constricting rubber of the pipe closed around him. He felt the grim material stretch across his limbs, sticking, adhering to his skin. He felt their clammy hands clawing into his shoulders with every heave, with every push. He felt his skin grow cold, his sweat vaporize. He felt his life slowly dwindle to a mere flame, stripped of all its fiery glory. He felt the wick of his life coming to a premature end.

What drove them to commit such madness? to inflict such agony?

He knew the answer.

They could not see him happy.

Avalanche

A sieve is what he wished for – a porous membrane that would help him sift through the chaos swirling in his head.

How do you confront all heads of Hydra together? How do you choose which one to hack? How can you know for sure  that two more heads would not sprout up in the place of the one you hacked off?

He wondered how a slight inkling of trouble could have evolved into a myriad of problems: problems that had determined to consume him so utterly, so absolutely as to not even leave an iota of his will unscathed. He understood now: the hollow quotes, the vague statuses he had shared on Facebook – they did not mean anything. They did not help him unravel his problems. They did not help him find solutions. All they ever invoked was a false sense of security; that somehow, the statuses, the quotes would help him exorcise his troubles.

He understood now: how intricately his thought processes were woven with his actions. How he had to chalk deeds on his slate, to clear his mind. How taking even the smallest of steps was more important than just twiddling thumbs and doing nothing.

It takes but a little stone dislodged, to set off an avalanche. And if you find yourself in the midst of one, you do not allow it to overwhelm you.

Instead you do something: you grab a boulder and hang on.

The Crowing Rooster

Time for the daily skirmish had come.

The early hours of dawn. Two warring parties. The Sun and its hues. The Moon and its darkness.

Night fought to extend its hold, whilst the Day fought to curtail its hold. The sky became a battleground: a bone of contention between the sworn enemies.

One was a harbinger of light, other of shadows. One enticed slumber, other toil. One sought for to expose, other embraced to hide.

The battle begun with a sneak attack: a purple streak from the Sun slowly crept over Night’s visage, botching its void with color. Night ambushed, taken by surprise, stood its ground and purple’s progress was halted. But, then – what master has only one card up his sleeve?

Whilst Night tried to stave off purple’s ambush – streaks of yellow and orange surrounded it and isolated the Moon from its  vassals: the Stars.

It was not long before Night was completely beleaguered: its defeat absolute.

And so somewhere, below amid the mortals, a rooster clambered on a roof and crowed.

A lament, maybe. A war cry of triumph, maybe.