We, the Rebellious
The class in which I had once studied, the people which I once adored cause me no more pain than a prick of a needle as I leave them behind; now that I have summoned up the courage to escalate to an area of unorthodoxy, where the membranes of my brain show less of emotional endeavour towards the crowd of people far less adapted to the truth of the world and are addicted to the consistence need of falsified drama performed by the society in which they breath. We had people in the past that survived by their wit and tried to destabilize the nature of governance that proved to be unfair and unjust for their eyes. People said not to meddle into the affairs of the men with power, to let the process of slaughter be as it remains, and for my utter disbelieve also proclaimed that the new teachings of freedom and abstinence may prove irrelevant for their tired minds and wished not to be disturbed. Thus with a heart suffering from the lashes of others’ insecurity, I walk the perilous street of damage and distraught towards a place where my existence would not alter the lives of their tired minds and in turn rebel against each and every conspiracy that has ever tried to mock the existence of humans.
My mother, who was an avid reader and a brilliant scholar, always said that no one thing can be demolished if one has not yet tasted the flavour by which it was produced. While moulding myself, I swam through the stream of corruption nurtured by the men who took no part in alleged tragedies of the people. I saw their eyes, dark not by the colour but by the insolent acts of selfishness and hunger for the wealth of every person that swam through the stream. And in the act of swimming, I too lusted for the sweet taste of riches that gleamed from the pockets of other people. The process gave me happiness but withered my soul as day by day, in front of my eyes, people lost something from themselves while I gained twice as much. But as crows are meant to be a share cannot be divided among them and likewise have no knowledge of the concept of distribution.
I lost it, the germ of greed that bred inside me washed away with the last drop of currency I had with me, taking away my family with itself. With that came a new feeling inside me. I could not remember to cry. Everything else, the bad and the worse as I saw it was coiled inside me like a worm harbouring inside the flesh of its host, each day dumped heaps of anger inside me with nowhere to channel it. Not that there was good out there but it was an illusion people had gathered to make their life bearable. A day’s happiness of one person overshadowed the tears of millions out there on the street begging to live just one day more so that they could find hope in a world of systematic injustice and false ethics. I knew there wasn’t.
Everyday I would walk down the street to buy some eggs and a loaf of bread to break my morning fast and each day showed a curtain of different allegories of truth hidden behind an open canvas of lie, I would see men with guns tearing apart each other’s lives in a war for reasons unknown to themselves and goals oblivious to their minds, religious outrage stained another curtain where the followers burnt a man with rational sense of thinking and glorified imbeciles that had no knowledge of spiritual ethnicity and nirvana, beggars begged not out of defeat but as a profession the men with power had allotted them, children leaped out of fogs of carbon monoxide and nitride for the sake of pleasure it derived and cared not if one of them stopped in the middle of the play to cough his/her life out. All this happened behind my back as I strolled through the street with the food my tired arms held, the temperature rose inside my body with trembling feet taking a step one at a time. All this happened and yet my eyes remained as calm as they ever were with not a film of remorse or pity to the world summoning violent conjures on the innocent, the naïve, and the handicapped.
To every aspect of nature there is a limitation.
In the midst of the dust and the ignorance of the public, I saw a daughter, a piece of living world inside a petty body, small and fragile and tucked under the arms of her sister sitting beside the street on which I walked. The traffic of ignorance did not pause for the two females as life of people around them continued as effectively as a stream of river. The elder child rocked her sister who was wrapped inside a cloth of oil stained garment. Not more than seven years of age, the elder sister made sure the cold atmosphere of the early morning did not affect the sensitive limbs of her younger sibling. After almost all the efforts, she removed her own garment of a soiled shirt from her body and isolated the child more comfortably than ever. For most of the people she was a girl naked and cold with her chest showing mild signs of puberty. For me she was the outbreak of emotions that were barred within an enclosed wall high enough to climb. The wall shattered and the anger rebelled with tears flowing voluminously from my eyes. With my wet, blur, and partially blinded eyes, I still saw the smile the infant produced when her elder sister prevented the wrath of the cold to harm her.
I knew I wanted to get mad. A new world awaited and it required my assistance.
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