Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Werewolf. an introduction.

It is said that when it stares you in the face you know whats coming. It is said that when it holds you one last time as if hugging you, you draw in your final breath and wait. You wait for the blow that ends its pain and your fear. You wait for death itself in its truest form to end your misery. You wait for for the tenderness of your skin to corrode into the hide awaited by your deathbed. you wait for the end. Some believe its a soldier's death. But when you whimper and all hope seems to abide the never changing rule of change is it still heroic? A werewolf is archaic. It is not immortal and neither is it invulnerable. It is merely the messenger of death. For that matter the most brutal of its kind. Its a platonic blend of chaos and resilience, of pain and resistance, of death, bloodshed and life. Attempting escape is a mockery and defiance of the elixir it possesses. When a werewolf charges ultimately all combat ends till the shade of dawn arouses. A wolf essentially is mighty and intimidating. A human is a slower more pathetic being. But he can think. Together they induce the genuine form of haplessness in the prey. whereas face to face among each other they would fight for fear of the other, in each other they would merely fight over the methodology used. The wolf likes to stalk and play. Humans essentially prefer the hurting part, the tearing away part of flesh from bone. It is afterall his ultimate aim. To be the foremost, that is what his upbringing teaches him. To be feared and to be powerful and what better than showering death as a weapon? What better than relishing the fear in the enemys' eyes' as you prepare to harvest its ripeness? What better than waking up knowing that the nightmare was real? You are stronger than anything else. Is there anything else that matters? Does any feeling beat that? Is it not his elixir? To the venom that supremacy breathes in him?

Saturday, December 12, 2009


They say what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. What ‘they’ always conveniently forget to mention is that what makes you stronger can kill you too.
And when your faith lies in the qualms of an ever changing ever thinking live specimen you can merely wait for your downfall cause accept it or not someday the reign will break loose. It is as intended. It is as planned. And this planned catastrophe, this slaughter of faith is what you call life.
There was once a man who loved. No not man boy. There was once a boy who loved. He was in his late twenties with nice black hair, the kind most girls would love to ruffle. He had the sweetest eyes, ones that spoke of dreams, ones that foretold innocent intentions, one’s that trusted. He smiled a lot, to every passing individual in the corridor to work, to his assistant who owing to his premonitions never had any money problems. For some reason he always brought her a yellow rose from the street as if to say, thank you for your company and your service. And then there was girl, one with a beautiful smile and very pretty eyes like the boy but of a different colour. Her complexion was the only fault and her complexion was the only perfection that set her apart from the boy. One night they met after work. Their paths intersected at the flower shop where he out of awe handed her a red rose after filling its every petal with the desire that he possessed to unwrap her like a gift of Christmas. She dropped it not out of haste or shock but misery. A thorn had hurt her finger drawing first blood. Blood of a colour similar to that of the rose itself. That had been the first sign of the trauma they were to encounter. Unhindered he had taken a new one, one by one picked out all the thorns and then addressed it to her in the most loving fashion a boy his age could have. They were instantly in love. She smiled dearly at him and he smiled back. He sprout a few lines he had heard his brother say to his maid while practicing a proposal speech to his girlfriend and she blushed. Encouraged he made more of his own and recited in the hope of a little more applause, in the hope of a feeling nothing else could compare to. That night he walked her home and took her hand. At the door he kissed it with all the tenderness he could muster longing to stay and then taking a few steps back and running away. The next morning he was there before she woke. She smiled at him as he took a bow and they headed to work. That night, they held hands and walked along the river. As they turned towards a lane an oddly dressed man called out to them. The girl was scared, the boy was unhappy. He walked to the man and said
“Why do you call out like this? Are you insane?”
To this he replied, no my lord I am just a poet and I was wondering if I could sing the two of you a poem I wrote cause I have never seen a pair so complete and so devouring to the eyes. From behind the boy the girl peeked and nodded.
He struck his chord and started the song that would end with May you my happy couple live long and live together. The next few weeks disappeared in the blink of an eye as their love bloomed. Summer passed and the monsoon faded away into cold. The cold did not suit the boy. He got sick and he went away. Then one day he came back to her. But she was there no more. She had changed into the woman of a very rich businessman. At first he could not believe what he saw. He went home and he cried and he hoped that it had been a dream. A few days later he tried again, the man was still there standing in the garden right next to her. His carriage was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had money, he had a big house too most probably and he now had her. There was no point in denying it no more. She had broken his trust. His will to live had gone. All that was left was emptiness. He tried to work again. He went to the same office, had the same secretary and gave her the same yellow rose. But the glitter in his eyes had gone. The pride in his stride had gone. All that was left was the bareness of the tree that had once stood and blossomed in the summer at the same place. One night he wrote a letter. He sent it to her and disappeared forever. Some say he died. Some say he went to some foreign land. To those close to him and to her, it was no secret that he had ended his life. She had broken his trust ending his will to live. He had died thinking that. But she had always loved him. He was the one who had faltered. The rich man had been her brother who had come to take her back home. She had been unwilling for she was sure her lover would come for her. He had been frail and taken things for granted. And for that he had paid dearly. Life wasn’t what he had missed. It was her.

The beloved lies in the bed right next to me darling. She stares at the ceiling all day breathes air and regrets what cannot be changed like either of us. Just that she is half dead and you my child have just begun. So remember strangers may become friends but friends will become strangers in the face of life. So have faith. After all my love, we are all puppets pulling each other’s strings. The right strings get us what we want, the wrong ones may cause damage but more so to the friend who befriended us. So be careful my fairy tale what makes you strong can kill you at will.