It was becoming darker.

The only thing visible was the industrial chimney. There the great pinnacle of our existence stood, its form nothing more than a silhouette in the distance. Smoke escaped from it like a slick convict walking out of the gates of a prison, getting ready to unleash his wrath on the world. The smoke was dark, almost as dark as the night. It swirled in on itself as it was let out, consuming its own form. It looked like a mutiny, like something turning against itself. It drifted up into the sky, as if lulled by a higher order and then disappeared into the clouds. The smoke had used subterfuge to penetrate the clouds. Which was the cloud and which was the smoke? It was hard to tell. A heavenly form had been penetrated; a body once resplendent with divinity had started to rot. The window was wide open, a silent spectator to this reality. The only sound audible was the fluttering of the greyish-yellow curtains against the breeze.

Dreary eyed. Exasperated. Pale faced. The boy stood there at the window. He looked on at the face of the artificial creation of which he played a diminutive part.

They called out to him, but he didn’t hear. He chose not to hear. It was irrelevant. None of this was real; it was nothing more than a solipsism. This world existed in his head and only his head. Why then did he feel like he had no control over it?

There she stood. She looked right into him. It scared him. He looked into her and saw this city that he lived in. He saw the decadence. He saw the dirt. He saw the sadness. He saw his pain. He couldn’t live in this city anymore. He couldn’t not live in this city anymore. He looked on, but he didn’t understand.

He heard the voices in his head; they were loud and clear. He heard conversations from the day and the day before that and the day before that. They were not his reality. Things were always as they were but they seemed different. They were different but they seemed like they were the same. His eyes remained open but he saw what he did not see.

Manifestations of what was and what never was overwhelmed his consciousness.

The rock that he had been tied to was sinking deeper and deeper into this lake of doubt and loneliness that he had subjected himself to.

He blinked and he was no longer there. He found himself in the embrace of an old friend, an island he liked to call Epos. He had been here before in this form on countless nights, adrift in a world that existed but which he could not see.

“We never find our way, regardless of what they say”

He still heard the voices. They were him.

There the tortoise stood, as it had always stood. The sand remained unfettered under its weight. The tortoise moved, so did the sand.

“Where did you find your sand?” He asked the tortoise.

“I never found it, it found me,” the tortoise said.

“Now go find your own.”

And just like that, the tortoise was gone. The island was gone. The sand was gone. The existentialism was gone. The pain was not gone.

The boy did not understand.


About Banda Mann Singh Lamba

I'm here to create art in the form of words. Come, take a dip in my day dreams.
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4 Responses to Hope…?

  1. Lipi Rastogi says:

    “The rock….himself to” para is repeated twice. But this is quite good. Why are you so intense?


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