Instinct!

That chat of Instinct

Plan and prepare, when the mind is set,

I go about today with no ado.

But when the seconds unrest,

I call for a plan redo.

Annoyed and upset I sit,

Hitting a needless mindblock.

Think not, nothing is going to take a hit,

I keep hearing the inner voice mock.

Do none, talk to the one.

Sounds right let me make the call.

Hello beautiful! I’ve thought of a mission,

But restlessness sucked it all.

I, instead, thought of having a chat marathon

With you for a righteous spent of time.

Hours went by, all ears she gave.

What do I do? Suggest in dear, will you please?

Sure dear, small chaos doesn’t decide what you ought to have.

Plan and plot your thought, seconds will be a positive ease.

Honest you are, correct you do.

Instinct it is, let it be your guiding marquee.

Much she said in the shortest of dict,

Made such sense that put her in new salience.

Instinct it is I should see,

Plan and prepare would find the right track.

Content I felt, upright I sat.

Thank goodness, she was there.

For this Life and Love, I’d go to the mat.

Gladness galore was the heart’s fore.

Dr.Gordon

Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.

A condition, I felt, under suspicion.

Flashes of irregular future me riding on,

mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.

At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.

Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.

Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.

Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!

Memory on me jig-sawed,

this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.

Happy memory, fake sense stay away,

his word's piercing the numbed mind.

Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.

Nothing son. Nothing out there.

You master your mind, not your recall's tear.

Silent he kept, glanced and gone.

Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he? 

Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.

So I thought. Gordon was he?

Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.

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.

No Man's Quest

 Dodged Quest

The rain came, but the flame thrived.

The step forward, for the love to survive.

The enigma lingered; emotion revived.

I took the flight; hoped no fight when I would first see her.

The cloud burst and the bolt of light was gone, what remained was the thunder

Of my heart; the turbulence aiding my muster.

Miles away on no man's land I stepped. I could hear

The whirring of the train engine and the call in its coo grew louder.

Alone in a long train, I was so detached

but this is the way to her, the thought keeping me relaxed.

Wind and Gaze, the worst hurricane

But it wouldn't collapse my strength; no way would the quest be in vain.

Off came a flying leaf, hybrid in dry and sodden,

Silence befell as it withered in my hand.

I stood by the tree, ramified through its age.

Greater than the miles I came, it stood tall

Seeking the reason for the blindness in love so small.

The Lady has a secret, and only that binds us all.

Shining through the light, smirk on her face;

towards me she walked, with an indifferent gaze.

A quiver of sorrows rooted from my legs,

Darning the secret, my sweat-wrapped-quest rot in pegs.

Who's to explain, the turn of events?

Undoing the sight, yet, my heart pumped spirit.

I began to question the uncalled nuance.

The stubborn stack of thoughts buried in mind,

There's still hope the secret would be kind.

The Line

 And The Fly

I was standing in the line when the little girl from no where crawled and tapped my feet. She, raising her head over a tough, good ninety degrees, looked at me. I might have looked like a monster holding a brown bar in my hand. I dropped it, the chocolate making a splatter design on her cute little frock. She crawled away. I lost my spot and had to restart the hope of reaching that first step to the fly.

I rejoined the growing line; the line now looking longer and bustling with cries of joy, hope and anxiety. Just behind me was a plump old man. Worried? Well, just wait a little longer. Son, this is my first time too. I guess you aren't alone! He gathered the conclusive expressions from my face shooting evident quirks.

The guy in front of me overheard the thoughts talking to me. This isn't my first time but that first step you take to fly has to sport a meaning, an explanation to our wait, a justifying statement to pain incurred through years of wait, he said. He looked young, anxious to experience the journey ahead, again, something that he would eventually do. But he meant a world in that one little sentence. I turned around to ask the old man a question - What made you wait so long? to this replied - It took an infinite amount of clock ticks to wait for this day. I dreamed a great deal but my obsession for 'the fly' gathered constant deceleration thanks to other factors that make up life. I tried tagging this process-on-the-side with my obsession but it was the fight for survival, fight for the buck that kept building hurdles. And here I am, accompanied by my gray hair, matured mind and the memory of the struggle. I tell you, it might well be an experience!

It took a while before the line granted another person a wish. It did take an awful amount of time for it to stamp its approval and grant that excitement. I began to think - What if I could give some of the wishes that meant a little-nothing to the man in front of me to the man behind me? Would the wish work the same way it did to him than it did to the other? The man behind me had the meaning, an explanation and the justification. Yet, he was on a track of hope that trailed. Why is 'the line' there to grant what I wish to have? Why would it make the wait only longer by making us wait, with questions that shoot like arrows of Jade? 

When would all this question-hope concoction dilute the anxiety and concentrate the fading and dying hope and make a perfect solution? As my eye rolled down a tear, the little girl looked up and gave me the candy-pop in her hand. I took it with a renewed sense of hope only to see the line getting longer and then vanishing from the scene. 

The flight of stairs ahead transformed to a painful spiral. The fly flew.

Cut to Power

 In No land

Christopher Nolan, Your mind is the scene of power. It is with that power that you have weaved magic with the use of the word crime. Here on, anyone who could come close to your mind or even tries to emulate you, is a criminal. For you, the World is a place of Aliens and you, the Human.

I now consider myself being part of a club that has watched all of Nolan's movies, including his short called Doodlebug, which you can watch here. All his movies are not just mind-blowing but they take you through an experience. If this isn't versatility, what is?  And why exactly is Nolan one of the greats? Imagine working on one of the most widely read/watched comic superheros of all time - Batman. Tim Burton started off the modern Batman series which was later ruined by Joel Schumacher but the franchise was given an entirely new life when Nolan decided to fly with the Batman. He put in Bale, a loyal albeit a voice-jarring Batman player, who gave Batman a new face behind the mask. Batman Begins and The Dark Knight are now amongst Nolan's finest works. Needless to say his Memento and others that followed redefined movies.




Inception.


[Spoiler free. Read it.]

It begins and ends in a dream, as a dream, for the reality; reality that a movie on this level of the mind can be made. Dreams are meant to be parts of a puzzle that cannot be solved. Dreams have no faces. Dream is a decoration. Dream is a consequence of what reality fails to show us


The movie begins, takes you to different levels of excitement as you get plunged in to a world architected to perfection; a world where gravity is gorgeous, destruction is awesome and where unbelievable is just a paradigm. All this chokes you until someone gives you a kick to come back from your dream. Every little detail in the movie such as performances, background score, cinematography, locations become a part of that dream. 

Wondering why everything is so? Try spinning your totem.



I wake up and I re-wakeup to find myself stuck in the dream. Richard Linklater taught me this loop of life and now Nolan has brought Ideas in to that dream.

Sleep with the Idea. Embrace the Limbo.

Have-to-Lose.

 Lost Possession

when you had it,
the look smiling upon you till no time;
when you had it,
like the soft bubble of a soap.

when it fades,
the haze blurring the smile;
when it fades,
like the vision of a tear-filled eye.

when it shows,
the intangible feeling flirting with you;
when it shows,
like that nonetheless inexpressible joy.

when it is gone,
there is only a peek at it;
when it is gone,
like there is no tomorrow;

and when it does,
the peek remains a memoir;
and when it does,
like the world collides.

Intertwiningly!

Biased

For him, Fate was a half-baked cookie and Destiny was its cheese dip. He grew up accepting his own theory of  cookie in cheese but denying the verity of the two. To him, every event is an uprising, every happening is a consequence and every feeling was a culmination of the two. He could not base his life on an event of the past or a happening of the present. Because he bore the brunt of the blow that came from people around him. To him, it was all about nothing; just the day that passes in the sanity of belief in the moment.

His reasoning was simple. It was based on logic that demanded no great mind. If everything happened for a reason, what does denying mean? Life is left with no choice if it were so. What is decision then? At one point, he had to make the biggest life-changing decision and now he is staring at the possibilities of the opposite. So based on this, now is Fate and Destiny, thus, is being modeled with catalysts, or pawns, called decisions and denials.

But then, he reasoned to live, even if it meant loving half-baked cookies and giving your taste-buds a sour ride. While his destiny waited, he took a piece of paper and enclosed it in a bottle that is now floating in the ocean.

What is that that awaits?  

Crossed

The Cross

You know, if I decide to cross the road now, I might just get a ticket to heaven. May be hell. Doesn't matter. The point is: I might get famous. People might start asking a question like 'Why did that man cross the road?'. Makes sense right? Think about it. I'm just a man holding a bag of groceries standing beside you, you know what I mean right?...Yet I decide to cross the road.

That was a man on his routine. He goes to the store, gets groceries, goes home and writes it in his diary. He tells me buying groceries for his family has become his emotional job. He was born in a place that currently does not exist and that he was raised by a slum-dweller. He never knew what a city is about. He was brought to the city by a person who is now dead but taught him the value of help. So all he knows it go to shop, buy groceries, feed himself and his owner's dog -  his dog, Matey. That was his family. But today happened to be the day of his life.


He held a bagful of dog food and medicines for his dog; his dog staring at the inevitability of death.

He owns the store. He spends time flipping pages of The History of your city to know where he came from. He has no memory of a slum. He describes the city. He spends time writing a character-sketch of his owner, the man who brought him to the city. He writes about his customers and friends at the store. Today he would write about the death of his dog; his only hope dying its death.

He crossed the road anyway. He turned back, his hope surprisingly renewed. He then waved good-bye to Death.

He wrote, Today, I talked to Death before crossing the road. He had no intention of taking Matey away. Matey's possible death triggered a fear of my own death. I thought I would get hit by a car, leaving Matey helpless during his final moments. But I got to feed Matey; he ate and looked alive. It is like Death lived.
This day is a cross. For I feared and won. Yet, I shouldn't have. For now, my family is alive.

Written learning

Untwinned Juxtapose

There isn't any conclusion, of mine, based on substantial evidence. It is just a carefully thought, sanely momentary and possibly deceptive judgment. For me, it is a process of having two hands full and weighing one against the other; the weighing comprising an evaluation of the good against the bad, or the evolution of the good from the bad or vice-versa. Because I sometimes think of how this process has an impact on my life, be it about a person or a life('s) commodity.

-----

There is no age that can call itself 'refined' when it comes to solving a dilemma-puzzle or cracking a confusion-code. Age is that point where all the previous age-chapters have already been read. So, most of the times it is just a matter of revisiting a page and flip it only when the current code of confusion is cracked. When it comes to think about a phase that would qualify as crucial for the future, move on to the next chapter; only there we have no clue what the chapter is going to teach us.

Now, at a point, I have this duel to deal with. I have two weights to be weighed; one which is very familiar and that had already been dealt with in the past and two, which undoubtedly seems like one's twin but is an untested situation yet. With a very clear situation-sketch of one, I begin to think and weigh two against one but there is this nagging fear that I might not be able to go through with two. I decided to give it a miss. It was a clear case of that momentary judgment.

Moments hence, I begin to realize that no matter how strikingly similar two things might appear, I hate one and I miss two. Though I stand to fight the falsification of this juxtapose, I still believe that there indeed was something I learnt; something I unearthed from the past to present it to the future.

Now is the time for me to write why and what happened, to finish another chapter in life.

 

question mark

Parched Wish

The dew on the leaf seemed like tears. It was like the night that would bid the twenty-four hour cycle a permanent goodbye. It was only a matter of time before the Sun would shoot its blazing rays down on every dew drop on the Earth. Clean water felt like a salt-less dream. And we were just waiting for the Sun to pass, unarmed and hopeless, dripping down sweat-tears, letting out that heedless cry of welcoming the Sun. Parched throats let out voices of anguish, muttering hopes of spending those last few moments under the shadow of soon-to-fall trees.

That day, it felt like the clock began to count down from twenty-four. My tomorrow ceased to exist. Everybody's tomorrow was a dead dream. With one last wish in my mind, seeking a desperate tear of joy, I set out on a woebegone journey walking my freckled brown bike; its rusted frames begging for a paint-job, its temperature hotter than the Sun itself.

Tired legs with a premonition of the inevitable threatened to bring the body to a collapse. It was then the eye blinked to a darkened shadow of a dying leaf, hanging from a frail branch, its green turned to an irreversible brown. The leaf found itself in a classic web of life's questionable postulate - Can I survive? With its fall, it would deny itself of imbibing that unimaginable small amount of water. But what is survival against all odds when nature has no room for a breath?

That was when my woebegone journey hit a deadened hope. The words in my mind began to remain a question mark. And She was facing the doom, similar to mine and the world, elsewhere. The question mark over survival was long gone.

The leaf dropped. It let itself loose, losing every hope of green. But it still fluttered, as if to stay alive, to challenge that postulate of survival. Thus, giving me hope to take my wish with it and land in her lap conveying my message of existence.

The Sun beat down. And we were beaten with it.

Empty page

White Wish

You remember I called you an 'angel' in a coupla poems I wrote for you? I asked Donna. Yes, she said, quietly. And then, a very long pause ensued.

Donna and I have been friends since forever. It is amazing how the word bliss defines itself when I talk to her. I used to transform that same bliss in to words; words that defied happiness. The list of poems/essays continued to count up to the uncountable. The list meant sanctification and satisfaction that came via that bond. But just when the bond began to boast of how eternal it could be, eternal met a tear-block. Donna announced her departure from the present. The Reason just puffed off the mind, hazed the heart and left me to decide if the teardrops were happy or sad. Did my list of poems begin to choke? I thought, tears hitting my cheek like bullets.

As we sat together under the tree, where we first met, she broke the long pause by placing a white sheet of paper in my hand, which read 101. She was gone long before I cracked the code.

Having retired to bed, I turned to poem#101 in my diary: 

What's angel's colour?

That binds us forever.

Eyes yearn for that pleasure.

I'd shed Red to treasure.

With Donna gone, I had to be content with images of her in a white attire. 

Quite Simply

In-gradient

I was standing near a gate, waiting for a friend, lost in thought. That was when a gatekeeper requested me to unblock the gate's way to the lock. I was lost. His words for the first time never seemed to reach my ear. Even his second attempt to move me out of that place had failed when he came over to gently pat me on my back and said Sir, I need to close this gate. We are past our working hours and now you are just adding to the delay. I replied saying Oh. But tell me this....

I asked him You work here right? Now, let's say you go home and your wife says 'I am willing to give up the best thing I have to make you happy. ' And let me tell you, she means it. Now, you have the chance to go and get your best thing at the expense of her's. There are no other alternatives. What do you do? A similar situation you would have come across in...say....thirty thirty-five years..ever?...never?

The keeper said Look young man. I am fifty and your thirty-guess did cheer me up. Thanks. He said with a smile and continued In my thirty years of work as a Concierge, janitor or a gatekeeper, I have seen people walk through a gate either leaving their troubles behind or considering themselves a tad bit heavier with troubles. Some treat the insides as a prison and some treat the insides as heaven. Same applies to the outsides. There could be a unique explanation behind each of those feelings.  For example, I would deny my wife's offer to let her best thing go, to invite mine. Burdening yourself sometimes lightens that very feeling. So a prison or heaven, insides or outsides is so much on the individual. That would explain the insides-outsides parallel or equilibrium. He stopped there and smiled at me. And then he said May I ask the reason behind your question? I do hope that this long version of my answer helped you a bit. For you to quickly decide to move from here (he said pointing to the railing) so that this gate closes, for me and for the answer you seek. I replied I am just deciding what the inside situation and the outside situation are in my case! Thanks though.



I stepped aside and continued my wait for my friend whom I would be meeting for the last time.

Unstepped

That Recluse Step

I often wonder the steps that I take to reach no place, the steps that I take for the troubled mind to come back to a state of rest, are the ones that almost always end in physical pain. What is advantage of living in a city when the advantage rots the mind? I could just wish for that one step that takes me to a place called peace.


I play a game of probability and I ask myself What is today going to be like? Smile or Snivel? the odds are even. And at the end of the day I realize, I haven't played a game. I was merely played by the daily dice of life, the thought arising from an actively sane mind. It is from the latter [the whining that comes from the proceedings of the day] that troubles begin to swell. It is then that a much needed walk is called for. Out comes desperation to silence the madness. For some, a walk would do.

I walked towards a tunnel that took me no where. Literally. It was pitch dark and I had no clue why I walked towards the unknown. It symbolized the state of mind - I don't need to go anywhere. I just need to take those few steps away from the 'sin' city to reach the mental state of silence. Barely in to the walk, I got blinded by a light. It was the moment of loss; a step further would have landed me in the abyss that was staring at me from toe to face.

I weighed the probability against the quest to seek moments of peace. I failed to investigate the source of that light. For all it meant, the step would have sealed fate. The abyss could well have been a cluse.

That one reclusive step, unlike the one from the tunnel, is still being searched for. For the walk to sport a destination while all the other questions are put to rest.

[cluse = a narrow valley]

ChoiceD

I Think I Lost A Few Taste Buds

I don't really blame people who take those extra few seconds to make a choice. If Green scores over Red, a choice is made. If black looks prettier than white, a choice is made. again. Woah, so much in a color!

A woman gives two lollipops of different flavors to her two kids. One of the kids begins to weep while the other slurps it on. And the mom makes an easy look and tells the kid 'Hell yeah! I took that for you, you didn't make the choice, did you?' 

The natural reaction would be 'Oh sorry honey, here's another flavor.' 

I'm with the mom here. She went over a small point to analyse a choice, her choice for the kid, assuming both her kids would like the same flavor. Now, would you call her uncaring or would you call her a careless-analyzing-mom?

So much goes over a choice. You are faced with a choice everyday. Rational or irrational, you are backed by your own reasons or motives to make a choice. Sad to say, choice sometimes becomes a decision. Or sometimes Choice becomes synonymous to Decision. 'There are about ten guys to choose from. What do I decide?' says a girl before she eventually decides on one person to exchange her wedding vows. Weird, I call it. 

It's individuality, really. It's more like closing your eyes and seeing where your thoughts are angled at,  not really pointed at. For me, it is more of a thought-process or an inclination before I lay my finger at that choiced something.

Weirder is when I begin to compare my choice with somebody else's and begin to feel 'Aah, I should have taken that. My choice is so rot.' Happens. That's when I feel like I have lost a few taste buds.

Null not

Rationull

 

For the entire complex network of nerves that run through my body, I am just a user. I could put them to different kinds of use. I could put them to test; I could hold them, or loosen them or just let them give me a stroke. Sometimes this very network drags me to a state of unexplainable emotion or anxiety. It is then I feel I am let off the hook. Or even dangerously close to the noose. It is during this 'sometimes' that I become a victim of unpredictability. Or when the Rationale in me begins to nullify.

Time doesn't know what happens around it, does it? Everytime I begin to stop time, say, for holding a memorable moment, I begin to realize I am spending that one extra second to see failure. On the flip side, everytime I begin to multiply a second, say, to let the mind skip thoughts of misery, I begin to realize I am spending those extra few seconds hoping for happiness.

I wake up every morning; with the bizarre thoughts that come during the night, subtracted. I always hope to polish my mind with a sense of sanity. The ink of the mind begins to tick off the points against the daily checklist, the first point on the checklist being: lived rationale? Have my actions explained my principles? What else do I need to do? How should I not care people who nullify their principles? Even if the acts that seem irrational to me seem rational to them... when the points get ticked off point by point, nerves begin to play.

I know, I can't let the nerves strike or thoughts choke me. I live by the reason. And I won't let the 'best' left to be corked while I begin to let myself loose off the noose.

I let Rationale be. Are you an 'I'?

Split Day

Rea-l-ity Sp-l-it…

It amazes me how the day transforms itself in to the night.  It almost makes me take a pen and write The day isn’t 24 hours long. The day is when there is light and darkness is what I call night. And night is when the soul-self is at song. I could count myself as one fine example of a differential  day-user:  day drags on and on with the dirt filled drop of sweat trickling down my forehead until it splits itself at the eyelash, into many more tiny drops of hope. And on days that spell bad, it gently combines itself into another huge drop of tear; tears of the eye.  There is an overwhelming feeling in this. It keeps me off track of counting the number of times this has happened. And/But when it does, it only reminds me that there is night.  When the Sun sets, almost splitting the defined day into an almost twelve hour halves, I so eagerly wait for the coolness to set in, the coolness defined by the psychological mindset that whatever happened through the day is only the derivative of the night before.

And why? Just as I begin to put the day to rest, my mental activity begins to wakeup.  Funny it may sound, but it so comfortably tires me without any physical activity. Just mental. There is comfort of the soft-pillow that hugs my arms and the eyes do their bit, their movement trying to clear the mind off the day. Because what follows is the attempt to beat fear and raise hope.

I have been and still a victim of certain phobias, wishing to battle them head on, first in the mind and then let ting the future do the talking. Then there is an entirely new world called dream, of which I have no control. Science plays its symphony in the head creating characters that are faceless and stories with plots that seem baseless. It still feels like a superbly scripted play because in this there are no interruptions. I never wakeup with fear. That was taken care of while the eyes did their active bit.

The process of the night ends on an abrupt call of the day, like the blink of the eye in sleep. And I wonder, sometimes, whether time took a quick leap blanking my mind off a few hours. Two pieces of the same day and the same mind that feel so disconnected. And in such a lovely way…!

Paradox? Let me just treat this as a cool Reality Split. Split at the L in both. Different yet so identical. Wink!

The tail

Eh. Oh.

One can never really dwell on the mysteries of Conveying and Comprehending. I’ve faced such situations myself; some embarrassing, some pleasing, some none and some unclassified. Here’s a figment of imagination that tries to explain the Eh-Oh of life or a relationship or a connection between two entities.

Ark, an imaginably sensitive but sensible man goes by his daily routine, stands by his principles and believes in the power of the paranormal. He’s an Eh? He raises questions on uncertainties and has the habit of losing his way in his dreams of thought.

Olia is a downright selfish girl with no emotional balance in her heart but just a plain walker in life. An abnormal, absurd instance never raises her eyebrow. She counts life in seconds. She gives just an Oh to everything.

Ark and Olia happen to be the best buddies. Ark never questioned himself why he’s close to Olia. Olia just talks and talks to Ark, shares smiles and tears when her emotional balance is at one extreme. Ark is aware of her uncanny behavior. Ark, being an extreme Altruist, does everything he can to console Olia when she is at one end of the balance. He also grapples with the other end of her emotional balance. Olia almost never reciprocates his altruism. She just consumes it and the yesterday becomes a thing of the past, the day after such an incident. Ark conveys the care and affection. Olia just takes it and Ark comprehends this as a step to unintended but true Oppression.

This little weak link between the two gives Ark a night of nightmare. The next morning, Ark texts Olia ‘May be I should try wearing a don’t care attitude.’ Olia, just up from sleep replies by saying ‘Oh, good for you’ with a smile.

Somebody sense the tone. I say A, not Eh. I say O, not Oh.

Altruism gets Oppression!

That’s the body of the figment. The tail is the tomorrow of life and understanding.