The Art of Life

It was strange to see so many people asking me over the DMs if I was okay, seeing how I was not posting for so long. Even though I have never had the privilege of seeing most of their faces in daylight, they heeded me as if I were a part of something, a family perhaps. A sense of belonging to something exclusive that I do not deserve! That got me to some thinking. A random sensation of electrons passing in between my neurons formed some anarchic brain farts which I am not proud of. Or guess I should be?

I am not worthy of the tender warmth people keep bestowing me with. Because I have done things; actions born out of hatred, greed, and lust! Acts that are pure evil in nature and about which nobody knows. Secrets that have to be taken to the grave so that the mother Gaya doesn't get more overburdened than it already is. I have seen blood in its simpler form gushing out of bipedal conscious creatures of god who know how to love, yet I wasn't even phased. I never knew I held such animosity inside until lady fate decided to add more spice in my life.

This is only one example that I am not making up to feel more exceptional and unique among the masses of almost 8 billion. People habitually boast about their achievements, not their sins. It's just that people need to do some venting from time to time. Or what would be the difference between man and beast! For the butterfly you see above is different from a moth because it chooses to keep its wings closed. Below is a story that I am writing for the sole purpose of venting I guess. Or to put it more simply, I'm facing a lack of better content at the moment:VV

A few moons ago, when Ptolemy's Capricornus was as vivid as it can possibly be in the night skies of equatorial regions, I left my home. My mum repeatedly kept scolding me throughout the day. As because, in her eyes, I am the most lifeless guy ever to exist. And so I left in spite, along with some clothing and a single thousand Taka note, slightly more than ten USD, to see where life takes me. Not long after, I was standing in front of a junction where dozens of buses leave every minute. My eyes were set on a bus that travels to the world's longest sea beach.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, maybe, the bus fare was more than what I had. So I decided to wait for the last bus, which usually has empty seats. I thought, why not ask the ticket counter guy if he would sell me a ticket for less! Feet's up on the table, a smoke in his hand, he replied that the last bus had already left. As I waited for the counter to empty up a bit, my was to be ride took off.

So I changed my destination to the cheapest and the farthest place possible. The wheel of fortune directed me towards a place named Kurigram near the borders if India.

A few hours later, I was afoot on the last stoppage of a place named Fatulla, not Kurigram, which takes more than twelve hours of transit. So, I just sat there, thinking whatever the f%#$k was I doing with my life! Cursing at my fate about how the guy just ripped me off for his Ganja money, directed me to a bus that wasn't even the right one, and I just went along with it. Asked for cheap, and he thought...

Eito mokkel peye gelum. Rater adhare ke e ba dekhbe!!

As the night grew dreary, I asked around about where I can rest. The first guy suggested a hotel near the train station with a weird look at his face, and his sentence ended with a wink and a smirk. As usual, train stations are more adventurous and free. So I took off to become homeless whose last hope was a random station and not to get crushed under passengers' stampede.

It was relatively empty; two or three of my soon to become compadres lay down covered with dirty blankets and a street vendor nodding with sleep. I called it a night above an empty bench while sulking at my mum. But, my trance broke off soon after as shouts and screams pooped up only a few feet away. I looked up to see two street kids fighting over a bag. One managed to dropkick the other and raced off with it. As he ran past me, a wallet dropped out of the bags side pocket. My mind went blank for a moment, and all the hunger that ever existed slithered back in my guts.

The guilt took over only after I rubbed my belly with all the unhygienic half-chewed carbohydrates, which looked like the kings' meals, yet bought with stolen money.

It was a much-worn wallet, with wear and tear, signifying the abuse it had to endure over the years. It housed a couple of notes about how to return it if ever found and a photo of a beautiful kid with braids resting over her shoulders in her school dress, the wallet of a loving middle-class father. Had money in it, almost worth a thousand hive in the current market price, all of which I spent with shaky hands and enormous guilt. A month's salary maybe, which might have included the girl's school fee, months' worth groceries, and the occasional deserts for the cutest kid ever, but I never returned it. Fate tested me, and I failed.

I came back home the next day, with the face of a looser, and moreover, the face of a coward and a thief. But for me, the takeaway from this was, hunger beats guilt, and my twisted sense of morale is as frail as the weakest dry tree branch. Bends and breaks at the slightest tap of reality. In hopes of returning the money, if I could ever sum up the courage, I put the wallet aside only to lose it. And with it, another to my unending list of sins. Another part of my soul lost to the mortal transgressions. Only proving what my mentor always says…

….. for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.