Month: July 2011


In one sudden burst, the light shone brightly. Everywhere. Its
beams flooded his surroundings, inundating him with light so intense, so
brilliant, that it hurt his eyes. Distressed, he raised his hands to his face,
shielding his eyes from the blinding gush of light. With one hand glued to his
face, he extended his free arm and hand forward, grabbing air, warily feeling
his way through his invisible environment. Exploring the unseeable. He did, in
slight, cautious steps.


He felt drowsy and, from time to time, a shrill sound would
ring in his ear. Like skidding tires, he thought, distorted and warped,
screeching endlessly. Then, gradually, it lowered in pitch and volume before
evanishing completely. Again and again it assailed him, paining him for a
moment, and then disappearing. A vexing, repeating melody.

The light had begun receding, its gleam slowly diminishing. He
could tell because it didn’t hurt his eyes as much as it did before. Carefully,
he peeled his hand away from his face, one finger at a time until he had
removed it all, leaving only his eyelids to cover his eyes. He slowly uncovered
them, and was met with a wall of green.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust, to feed him his
surroundings again. A haze of barely visible, albeit clearly green, objects
before him came into view. Before long, his eyes focused. He could see again.

 He saw a field, lush
with greenery, and, in the middle of it, was him. Running. Not knowing where he
was running to or from what, he ran. As fast as his legs would allow. The feel
of earth beneath his feet, grass cushioning his every step consumed his thoughts.
That and, overwhelmingly, the happiness it brought him. The feeling of hovering
over his worries, of bypassing them. Like a thick cloud of contentment in his
head. Of feeling as though he was a blade of grass, like the ones he was
stepping on, not a care to hinder his enjoyment. Endlessly dancing to the
gentle breeze.  He relished it, every
second of it. The faster he ran, the happier he got.

He looked down at his right hand; found that he was now
holding a doll. It was worn out, its colours had faded, loose strings of thread
protruded from its hem, its exterior battered by what must have been years of
play, toting around, loving.

A familiar voice rang out, calling his name.


He looked over his shoulder, taking care not to fall into a
small pond of mud ahead of him, skipping over it before he turned to look. A
few feet behind him was a girl, chasing after him. Her long, thick locks of
illustrious hair tied back in a ponytail that bounced behind her and,
occasionally, spun around, striking her on the face. He saw her, very visibly,
trying to stifle a laugh, trying to stop herself from bursting into a frenzy of
snickers and giggles. She attempted to look serious, to threaten him into
giving back her cottony friend.

Clutching it, he ran and ran. Skillfully hopping across
little pools of water, puddles of mud. She matched every maneuver of his, anticipating
his every turn, swerve and jump with the apprehension of someone who had been
through similar kidnappings before. With the apprehension of a lifelong friend.
His tactics had become predictable, easy to foretell and counteract.
She knew that, every so often, he would tilt his body, as if
turning to run in another direction, only to thrust his body in the
opposite direction a few seconds later.  She
knew not to fall for that, to veer sideways before he did.

She knew that he runs as fast as he can, that he, excitedly,
uses up all his energy, funnels it into one joyous and short dash, and that,
when he drapes his arms on his sides or flails them about, that he had tired
himself; that the calculatedly conservative approach she takes to running him
down would, eventually, prove a better strategy.

Looking on, he saw a stream of dense, black smoke in the
distance, emerging from the tree line. For a fleeting moment, everything was
blocked out, his attention drawn solely to the trail of ascending blackness. He
blocked it all, the wind ruffling his hair, the wild, unkempt vegetation, the
wobbly reflection of the sun on the many ponds along his path, the faint whoosh
of leaves rubbing against each other, the buzzing of an all-too-curious bee
that wouldn’t leave his side, the thought of how much he enjoyed his pursuer’s
company, how much he loved her.

“Adam!” she called again.

She had caught up to him and, with all the might she could
muster, shoved him from behind. Letting out a hearty yelp as she did. Not so much
impacting him as forcefully, and surprisingly gently, pouncing on him. He lost
balance and, after a few failed attempts to regain his footing, started to
tumble, falling face first into a stale, still patch of murky water, his face
piercing its undisturbed surface.

He fell and fell, perpetually sinking into the water, into
the darkness. Into a pit of nothingness. Again, the screeching tires plagued
his mind. It hurt the most this time, feeling like a blunt blade wedged in his

And, with that, the last of a string of a thousand memories
bolting through his mind had ended. In rapid succession, they occupied his
thoughts once more. Every cherished memory, every warm, welcoming smile, every
image of a loved one engrained in his mind. Memories of life-long friendships,
of days spent laughing till it hurt, of lost loves. Every agitation of his
soul. The insufferable screech assaulting him in between each one.

The sound, as it did before, started to die down. Drowned out
by the ebony of a never-ending emptiness.

Fading one last time.

Back To Darkness Now

The sirens wailed; the waves of their sound propagating in
every which direction, inundating the surrounding air with deafening sonance. The
road was wide and busy, stretching on for miles, seemingly endless. The
squadron, threatening as it was, forced other vehicles on the road to swerve
out of its way; veering abruptly to the sides of the road to avoid impact. The
cars traveled in near perfect unison, slicing through the warm, still air of
that summer day. They did so, in pursuit. In unrelenting chase.


Leading this armada was a lone vessel, one that is blatantly
different from the rest. One that was attempting, and struggling, to evade
capture. Its driver, no older than twenty, was panting uncontrollably. Frantically
and hurriedly, with the bed of his index finger, he wiped away the pool of
sweat that had collected on his forehead, dripped onto the sides of his face.

He squinted; a teardrop had slid into his left eye. Periodically, he’d
worriedly look over his shoulder, tilting his neck to look back, and tilting it
back again, moving so swiftly and suddenly his vertebrae would snap in protest.
He did this incessantly, as if his pursuers would disappear,
vanish into the summer heat. His foot weighting down the acceleration pedal so
forcefully, so mightily that it was as though cement had solidified over it. In
doing so, he squeezed out every last horsepower his fluttering engine had to
give. It purred and hissed, as if apologizing for its less-than-favorable

His heart pounded in his chest. Pulsing like, he thought, it
had never done before. It amazed him that, after beating that way for so long,
it hadn’t degenerated into a trembling, twitching mass, given out on him. Let
him die. Spared him the torturous agony of his existence. It beat so fast it
was as though, if it beat any faster, it would burst out of his body in one
gushing surge of blood. It did, mostly, not for fear of capture, but at the realization
of what he done. The full magnitude of his act struck him, shocked him.

He sat there, palpitating. His mind lay suspended vaguely at
the midpoint of, on one side, the awe of his deed and the bitterness, the
heartache on the other. At times, it would change position. Sporadically, one side
would overpower the other. The thick, wounding smoke of sorrow and the
breathtaking flood of astonishment taking turns consuming his thoughts.
Torturing him.

 The harsh reality of his futile attempt did not escape him, either. There was no escape. Not for
him. Not on this highway. He knew, was certain, that they’d get to him.

His determination, his resolve, his conviction to not get
captured, even to the drivers of the vehicles trailing him, seemed admirable. After
all, what he had done was, to most people’s sensibilities, entirely
justifiable. Commendable, even. It dawned on them that, put in the same
situation, they would’ve done the same. They’d imagined themselves in his shoes
and decided that it was very unfortunate that they were tasked with running him
down. In fact, given the chance, they would let him be. They pitied him, almost
as much as he pitied himself. One of life’s many injustices, they halfheartedly

In the distance, slight buildings, trees and pedestrians
materialized. A small town.  They had out-driven the highway. It wasn’t endless after all. Gradually, the wide
highway funneled into a narrow patch of road that, soon, gave rise to an even
narrower road. For a moment, a bench far away caught his eye. A woman sitting
atop it, her face buried in a book. He envied her. Her calmness, serenity.

He wiped his forehead again.

It wasn’t long before he, his car and the others were in the
centre of town, trespassing on its peaceful grounds. Their collective bolting
by drew all manner of apprehension from the townspeople. Bystanders, startled,
cringed away at the sound of the traveling fleet, its menacing speed. Havoc.
The road, once a beeline, free of curves, was now a winding path.
It gave the lone driver ample opportunity to engage in elaborate maneuvers
along the ever-bending track. With every curve he’d gain distance away from the
cars behind him. With every curve, he’d gain ground. A tiny glimmer of possibility
shone, only to be abated shortly.

Not far ahead of him, a little boy, not more than half a mile
away, scurried across the street, chasing after a marble of his that had
rolled out of his reach. Wholly unaware of the approaching cars, their speed,
that they could kill him. In an earnest attempt to avoid driving over the boy,
he steered away from him, as quickly and as acutely as his quivering hands
would allow. The car banked sharply. It flipped, perpetually and of its own
ability, side over side, tossing the driver from his seat to the roof and back
again, his head thrust against the metal roof and frame repeatedly. A thud rang
out every time it did.

Ultimately, as if finally content with the extent it had
clobbered itself and its driver, the car lost momentum, finally resting a
remarkable distance away from the road.

Everything blurred, vanishing into nothingness. All the
sadness that had crushed his soul, all the tantalizing thoughts of what might
have been, all the pity he had for himself, every morsel of anguish that had
ate away at his being, all the shame and regret,  disappeared. Blended into oblivion. Faded to

A single, faint sound pierced through the darkness, drenched
in reluctance. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to …”

Back to darkness now.

The Prison Of Mind

The idea of a prison of mind has been sloshing around in my
head for quite a while now, I think it’s only appropriate that I articulate what I’ve come to discover.
What is a prison of mind? What does mental imprisonment
Of course, far be it from me to pontificate on philosophy- I
am by no means a philosopher- but I’ll define it the way I see it. I would
define it as anything that shackles free thought; any deliberate untruth that
changes our perceptions of reality, what we hold to be true. Any dogmatic idea
that causes us to -knowingly or otherwise- act in accordance with others’
interests, and against our own. A prison of mind is one that stops you from
forming coherent thought, forming genuine opinions, unpolluted by pernicious
influence. Most of all, it can be characterized by its causing of great
detriment to the sufferer. All this decidedly constitutes mental imprisonment.
To be mentally imprisoned is to be incapable of controlling one’s
actions and thoughts, because they are controlled by others. It’s a case of
abating of will. And, in that sense, it’s a disease of both the body and mind.
All this, in a remarkable way, harks back to the recent Arab
When you consider the mass mental conditioning dictators
enforced –and imprudently, daringly continue to- on their countrymen, the
similarities become flagrant. Making us think –mendaciously, of course- that
they are both intent on our benefit and are all-powerful and omnipotent, in equal
measure, proved very potent – we kept them in office for decades!
In fact, mental imprisonment is, in all likelihood, culpable
for most every injustice in our world. Thoughts à la “you’re too insignificant to change anything “
and “what difference will you little old you make?” relieve the righteousness
we should rightfully feel. Evil thrives when good men do nothing.
Advertising is another startlingly widespread example of
mind imprisonment. Every day we are bombarded with advertising promising us the
illusion of happiness; asserting that if we buy, buy and buy, we will be
complete, happy and content. We’re stuck in a
vicious cycle, endlessly pursuing a facade. Thinking that maybe, just maybe,
it’ll make us happy. It never will. It entrenches us in a culture that
is unimaginably detrimental to us. We find ourselves willingly following the
self-destroying herd, spending every waking moment in a futile pursuit of
Racism and intolerance arise from mental imprisonment. Both are a direct result of believing in falsehoods and acting upon those, resulting in the deprecation, mistreatment and vilification of segments of society. Not to mention viciously eating away at society itself.
The examples are endless.
Mind you, we merit our equal share of the blame. For
foolishly lazing and accepting whatever we are maliciously presented with as
unequivocal truth, for, in the case of dictators, keeling over to the
threatening, seemingly unchangeable –the key word being seemingly- status quo,
for not seeking the true nature of things, we are equally liable.
A quote from Christopher Nolan’s ‘Batman Begins’ comes to mind
as very befitting. While sword fighting an amateurish Bruce Wayne, Liam Neeson’s
character, Ducard, roars “Will is everything!” and elaborates with a restrained
“The will to act”. The infamous “open your eyes!” also comes to mind in exactly
the same vein. A pragmatic, objective look at everything we hold to be true is
desperately needed.
A prison of mind is the most confining prison of all.