On the tip of Grass

The man is not ready to believe the fact there the land belongs to mankind. It Is not too cheap to be traded with money, not too big to be divided into boundaries, not too strong endure the eternal atrocities it’s being inflicted upon.  The heart of the land is in tears and not surprisingly in the hue of crimson. Because we have made it force down an endless ocean of blood. Human blood. Blood dripping out of the shriek of a mother who has just lost her only son while fighting for the land he was told belongs to him and is still waiting for his ashes. Blood leaking out of the stone cold eyes of a small child whose father was shot down this evening only because he chose and believed that the path of righteousness and responsibility for the same would one day reign above everything. And also blood oozing out through the vagina of a dead virgin girl who was raped in a car seven years ago and later tortured to the level that she begged on her knees for her death. I can see that the sky has shed its usual colors and wrapped itself up in the perpetual color of red. Or maybe the sky is just a mirror making a streak of reflection about what is happening under. May be.

Now a days it is becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between morning and dark. The sun and the moon all look the same to me. My eyes too are smothered in a monochrome. I’m not blind I’m simply color blind. And the blindness is the greatest gift of me to myself. Now I can’t tell which is blood and which is water. Which is selfishness and which is selflesness. Which is love and which is hatred. Which is murder and which is martyrdom. I have let the reins of my sense of judgment to a few people whom I thought were most eligible to manage but not to rule my land. I have traded my conscience to a void that is dreamless and emotionless. In that void, I can’t see through but there is absolutely no hint or trace of the rainbow of my imaginations. My perspective about the rising tomorrow of the land I still think is connected to me invisibly through some umbilical cord. No, nothing. Just a piercing and deafening scream of jet blackness. It’s giving me a great consolation for the irrevocable sin I have committed. I have in my fist a handful of the ashes of my soul I had burnt long ago. I can feel absolute numbness in my limbs because my heart doesn’t simmer me anymore with the deluge of affection. I’m dying naked with this chill. But I don’t know the pain of death. May be I’m dead a long time back or may be that I was never ever alive.  Dreams have turned into hallucinations and realities into nightmare. Are my eyes closing due to the undeniable and unforgiving syringe of death or opening from a long slumber I had?

I’m floating in air, at the intersection of life and death, the middle junction between the earth and the sky. Now the hands of my brothers, mothers, sisters or friends can never reach to me. Now their voices are blurring into an oblivion and their convergence is only a meek decibel star I can see that is too weak to lighten me again. I’m being catapulted away from every lovely imagery of life I’ve ever known or felt. The air gushing past me feels burning hot. And mingling with the cold sensation of my body, it is giving birth to a painful contrast. But I’m too dead to experience it.  Thank God.

But it’s far better than the pain to see your land surrendering so helplessly to the guns, tanks, mortars and money of a bunch of people. The shameless and the disgusting undressing of my land by self proclaimed protectors of its dignity. Ironical but true. Trust me, it’s way better than the pain of being an unemotional witness to a carnage than protesting against it. And that’s why I’ve picked up the trajectory of ignorance to elude that pain. My indifference is the only refuge from the siege of my ideologies, perceptions and experience with truth which have been bitter and shattering to say the least.

And that is the only reason why I believe that I can never be as common as the people around me are.