Filth & Froth

Facing Filth

He thought he was part of an agenda, an agenda that goes against the simplicity of everyday routine. The moment he embraced the unfaithfulness of the World, he loved himself more; his living in disbelief made so much sense as he ignored the pricking deceit he faced. He enjoyed being numb. For once, he could see his always-moist-eyes dry.

He barely slept during the night and lived the day, lethargic and listless, much to the agony of the Sun. He fell asleep on his plate of fried vegetable, something that expected the dampness of the drool. He thought the buzz of the day calmed his haunting thoughts that usually visited him during the night. I am so made for the other side of the planet, he often thought. My body is dead in my sleep. And so am I. My eyes go on for a roll at a time when they are supposed to see colored dreams. This pill I take, for whatever reason, is a mere catalyst for peace, he said when I asked him about his metastable dullness at night.


And the reason played hide-and-seek. While I put this thought here battling my sleep at the dead of the night, he's busy counting tears with a useless piece of cloth in his hand. I could easily boast of my content in my everynight diary but I it robs me off my smile looking at his state of a 24-hour cycle. And I fear his fear infecting me but the reason still hasn't surfaced thanks to the mystery and selfishness.

Much to my surprise, it only took a tight slap on his face, red enough to explain the mystery. Filth & Froth, he began. Little did I know that if I hugged a toy, it would fart on my face. If I kissed a rose, it would taste of wither. If I looked at a lovely painting, it would spit paint all over me. If I touched silk, it would send a bolt of shock through my fingertips. He paused. I ignored the on-going silence that instilled the highest sense of thought in my mind. And then, I cursed. I tried to fish out smiles from the beautiful river that surrounded me but I just found the froth of the dross. I saw smirk for a smile. I saw a finger for a gesture. I saw deceit for trust. He paused again. I wondered if I was anywhere visible while he narrated his story of agony, in broken, meaningful, striking style.


Yet, I kept my hand rock-steady. I had one reason left to forget the froth. But, like they say even 1% is a possible probability.  I noticed the boil even in the love that now seems feigned. If this isn't Filth, then what is?

That was it. I needed nothing more than those few bleeding words. I left him to his world, curled up in the  corner of the room. I switched on the light, for him to be the morose one; hoping the darkness to stay away forever.


And I... switched off the light and switched on my alter-ego.

Factorizing a day

Refactoring

It doesn’t end, does it? There is stunning equilibrium in the process of continuity. And then there is Cold war, when thought makes a friendly visit. Then we change, as we are consumed by the onset of this cold war. A war in itself. In one’s self.

He picked up his toothbrush, to make the gentle to and fro motion, brushing his thoughts, organizing them for the clock to strike the right time. Hoping the clock adds second upon second, without having to go back, to reframe the past; the froth in every stroke, without the foul smell of decay.

The glass was left in its half. Half full of water. He drank half of it that quenched his thirst. With the thud of the glass, he watched the ripples on the surface dying with time. He tapped it a little and watched the process, again and again. Half full or half empty, the essence is the same. For him, it was how much was drunk and how much is left. He put on his coat to extinguish the day.

The tiny drop of sweat wet his shirt. He left it to itself. The cloth in his pocket would cool it down sooner. The longer it stays, the longer it is exposed to air, the longer he could feel the effect of evaporation. Perspiration cools me down, he thought. A day’s work is counted in your breath.

He talked to his friend over the phone. He gazed more at the shining stars on his ceiling than he spoke to her. The tick of the fourteen hour clock that counted his day constantly faded every word she spoke. But when the tired mind overcame the rush of thoughts, the eye joined lids. Six hours hence, he reopened his eye to brush, to tap the glass, to sweat and to talk (his friend willing to respect his strange sense of listening.)

When days tick in equilibrium, change appears as a distant black dot.

The thought made a friendly visit to his mind. Would his teeth be any whiter with a different stroke? Would a full-glass of water show an exit to his body toxins? While he questioned himself on those, he called his friend to get at least one answer. Would you have been closer to me if I listened to you with intent? Or would I just seek answers to my questions staring at stars of nothing?

The war brings in potential signs of loss. Loss of oneness or loss of what we have or what we may have. The black dot far away might pick pace, as a big red block.

The He is me. The He is you. He might just be us.