Not Today…

By |2020-02-21T14:27:02+00:00February 21st, 2020|Inspiring Story, Uncategorized|

The knock has been hefty. Yes, I can barely see things now. A nasty sock in the head and its all dizzy and the din inside my ears have deafened me to the world outside.

The world seems like a bokeh while I lie down here in the pool of my own blood, still trying to get up for that one last time, trying desperately to separate the colours that are prancing a ballet in front of my weak eyes, to breathe for one more time while my weak hands lift up the blade and swing it for one final time, screaming and singing, “Roma Victor”.

I do not think that I can do this anymore. My life is about to end and so is the independence of my envisaged Rome, an idyllic glade of happiness, where I have survived with smiles and tears, with laughs and jeers, with joys and pain, with the sun and the rain, most importantly my paraphernalia of salvation.

It is not an easy battle to duke out, that I have understood, not a fight which one can win without his own sacrifice, but the war was always worth fighting for.

Your parents going against every tenet that you have stood for, your closest chums jettisoning you to your surrealistic idea of changing the world, your contemporaries sticking a no up your face, every time you have donned on the rose of revolution, and finally that one last dream that you have fought for with your claws and teeth bared out from your masquerade of an ill-fitted civilisation, crashes right in front of you to the whims of those cynically conventional editors, who thought that vitriolic scorn spewed by you in your poetry is nothing but a slam. Still, I am super proud of all the rare moments for which I have smiled genuinely. I am proud of all the moments which has inflicted the most painful bruises on me and yet I have moved on. I have always moved on.

Like the great Arthur Conan Doyle quoted through his remarkable creation Sherlock Holmes, “Modesty in my most humble opinion isn’t a virtue of greatness”, I am rude, I am arrogant, I am proud, demonic, angry and yet when it came to my dreams, I fought fiercely with every last fragment of my soul, fluttering itself like a broken Horcrux in a sky filled with beautiful kites.

I always knew that with my limited resources, victory shall never be mine and yet I believed. I believed that the dream must be lived, no matter how ghastly the consequences are.

The dream of emancipating the world from the clutches of tyranny, fascism, bullets and bombs have always felt like a pipe dream and yet I swung for the fences.

My creaking bones are burning and so is my dream, but yet I must stand up today for that one last time. I must stand up because my pen is still moving. The ink flows and so does my breath. The trigger on the gun is the nip of my pen. It will not win me a lost war, but it will at least fill me with dread that the end to this shall not be a day when I was shattered for an umpteenth time but a bullet in my head.

I can still find the universe churning in me and my blood boiling against the crimes on the suppressed. I can feel the gentle breeze chaffing on my sunken cheeks for one more time. It took me 20 years to build this dream and it will take me a thousand lives to rebuild it from the ruins, but I am not giving up.

I do not know to whom I must pray tonight, but my words must echo in the pantheon, for I have heard that Gods are scared of the wounded.

Bella Ciao to the Gods for a demon shall now be deified with the same intent and the world must be black. The dream must be lived.

And here my mortal body will pick that pen up once again and dip it in the indomitable fire of a never-ending revolution,  screaming Dracarys, and for one last time embarking upon the black beauty whose seraphic mane shall light up the darkness and my raiment of defiance will be stronger than ever.

To the God of death, who wanted to tread on my ailing soul, shall I scream, “Not today”!




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