The Burning Vagaries
“I discovered some other form of human evil, which is feigned, I suppose most of the times.
The female evil is the “Succubus”- a demon assuming female form to have intercourse with men. The male evil is the “Incubus” – a demon assuming male form to have intercourse with women.
The word “intercourse” is such a lodestone though; it has immense power to attract malice in the soft hearts, which are softest when they are very young. ’’
“Oh. Who do you suppose has more fun then?”
“ Well, that’s quite easy to tell. The humans who are the victims of course. This “intercourse” is rather a corollary. A critical corollary. You can’t escape from sins. Either from doing them or from being done upon. And please forget the morals. They can be revised from time to time. Remade, revisited, relinquished and retrieved. We all infuse deciduous moralities.”
“Words of a fallen man?”
A time for a breath. A time for space. A time for a solitary dwelling. A time for voices. A time for a jamboree. A mind beholds everything. All the colors, all the sounds, all the tangible objects; nevertheless conjuring something intangible. It is replete with fragments. All crepitating. All infusing a pulse.
Avast! The land we live in can be dreary! Listen to me. I have to feel it. I have to feel the world. I have to find a meaning. And my actions should be quick yet thoughtful. My movements should be dexterous yet thoughtful. I have to tack my ship. I have to set the sails. I have to catch the wind. I have to be impregnable to the morbid dreariness. I have to run. I have to fly. I have to go beyond the vast waters. I have to ameliorate my state, always. (Morality? Deciduous morality?)
The day always begins with the dawn. The early sun, rising slowly to take over the dark world. As it always happens in all the books. As it always happens everyday. So many times it rises and falls. It is a pulse in itself. A great pulse that fails to cease. Unlike the ambivalent thoughts. They always behave differently, unlike the sun. It is as if everyday, there is a basket of emotions. And almost everyday, the ingredients change. Some remain in the basket. But otherwise, some are as new as freshly baked bread. Some become stale and wilt. Some are resolute, as if the basket is a place in which they survive. I wonder if they have their own episodes of jamborees. It must be a blend of the Uncouths and the Samaritans. The best baked breads. Serving a human appetite. They need a physical mechanism as well.
I cannot believe the sun will not rise tomorrow. I cannot believe I will lose the basket. This man cannot render me fallen. I’m well nourished. Immune to many attacks. I’m strong. I’m wild at heart. I cannot be stabbed because I am made of steel. I’m impregnable. Not a mendicant. Not a part of any decadence. I conform to my deciduous morality. That is probably the call of the age I live in. The land I live in. But I survive. I carry along the basket. And because of it, I can be a warrior in the midst of a battlefield. I can shirk the uninteresting events. I can breathe. I have my space. I can hear voices. I can be drunk in a jamboree. I see all the colors. I hear all the sounds. I understand tangibility. I look for something beyond. I feel the world. I have a meaning. I tack my ship. I set the sails. I go beyond the vast waters. I make things better. But I always return.
No. I haven’t fallen. I have only returned to the beginning. So I move forward again with my basket.
This man doesn’t know how I fall or rise. Nobody knows. I am an august event. Only I know my pulse. Me.
And of course, I can be very verbose…so much so that the reader will get tired of my prolixity. And the reader might suffer from consternation as to why and how aforementioned demons are mentioned at all. They had to be mentioned because there has to be a certain amount of evil in a story. Only a certain amount. As it always is in all the books. As it always is in the world.
“I discovered some other form of human evil, which is feigned, I suppose most of the times.
The female evil is the “Succubus”- a demon assuming female form to have intercourse with men. The male evil is the “Incubus” – a demon assuming male form to have intercourse with women.
The word “intercourse” is such a lodestone though; it has immense power to attract malice in the soft hearts, which are softest when they are very young. ’’
“Oh. Who do you suppose has more fun then?”
“ Well, that’s quite easy to tell. The humans who are the victims of course. This “intercourse” is rather a corollary. A critical corollary. You can’t escape from sins. Either from doing them or from being done upon. And please forget the morals. They can be revised from time to time. Remade, revisited, relinquished and retrieved. We all infuse deciduous moralities.”
“Words of a fallen man?”
A time for a breath. A time for space. A time for a solitary dwelling. A time for voices. A time for a jamboree. A mind beholds everything. All the colors, all the sounds, all the tangible objects; nevertheless conjuring something intangible. It is replete with fragments. All crepitating. All infusing a pulse.
Avast! The land we live in can be dreary! Listen to me. I have to feel it. I have to feel the world. I have to find a meaning. And my actions should be quick yet thoughtful. My movements should be dexterous yet thoughtful. I have to tack my ship. I have to set the sails. I have to catch the wind. I have to be impregnable to the morbid dreariness. I have to run. I have to fly. I have to go beyond the vast waters. I have to ameliorate my state, always. (Morality? Deciduous morality?)
The day always begins with the dawn. The early sun, rising slowly to take over the dark world. As it always happens in all the books. As it always happens everyday. So many times it rises and falls. It is a pulse in itself. A great pulse that fails to cease. Unlike the ambivalent thoughts. They always behave differently, unlike the sun. It is as if everyday, there is a basket of emotions. And almost everyday, the ingredients change. Some remain in the basket. But otherwise, some are as new as freshly baked bread. Some become stale and wilt. Some are resolute, as if the basket is a place in which they survive. I wonder if they have their own episodes of jamborees. It must be a blend of the Uncouths and the Samaritans. The best baked breads. Serving a human appetite. They need a physical mechanism as well.
I cannot believe the sun will not rise tomorrow. I cannot believe I will lose the basket. This man cannot render me fallen. I’m well nourished. Immune to many attacks. I’m strong. I’m wild at heart. I cannot be stabbed because I am made of steel. I’m impregnable. Not a mendicant. Not a part of any decadence. I conform to my deciduous morality. That is probably the call of the age I live in. The land I live in. But I survive. I carry along the basket. And because of it, I can be a warrior in the midst of a battlefield. I can shirk the uninteresting events. I can breathe. I have my space. I can hear voices. I can be drunk in a jamboree. I see all the colors. I hear all the sounds. I understand tangibility. I look for something beyond. I feel the world. I have a meaning. I tack my ship. I set the sails. I go beyond the vast waters. I make things better. But I always return.
No. I haven’t fallen. I have only returned to the beginning. So I move forward again with my basket.
This man doesn’t know how I fall or rise. Nobody knows. I am an august event. Only I know my pulse. Me.
And of course, I can be very verbose…so much so that the reader will get tired of my prolixity. And the reader might suffer from consternation as to why and how aforementioned demons are mentioned at all. They had to be mentioned because there has to be a certain amount of evil in a story. Only a certain amount. As it always is in all the books. As it always is in the world.
