He stood in front of the decrepit building and sobbed silently at the smouldering ruin that now lay in front of him, an imposing, almighty figure, wrapped in glass, standing erect only a few hours back and now reduced to ashes, its blackened exterior shrouded amidst the early morning fog, as if still enveloped in the shadows of death that loomed loomed large over the horizon, threatening to engulf him in its wake, right under the eyes of the stars that still shone across the sky, their splendour radiating an almost paradoxical state of affairs on-ground, a scene surrounded with fire engines, confused onlookers and his sobbing figure.
He heard Guns n’ Roses’ Paradise City, realizing it was coming from his own head, mingled with the chaos of the fire engine personnel rushing inside half-heartedly, fully aware that whoever was unlucky to be working at this hour inside, was by now a charred figurine, probably unrecognizable beyond means, equivalent to a stuffed human rag, soon to be dumped into a crematorium, surrounded by wailing, while its soul laid heist to the fires of the world.
A part of him lay inside the ruins. The part associated with memories and the fact that he had grown up in stature, measured, sized himself up for the challenges life and self came across everyday, the challenge of tackling them with joy, frustration, pain and love, equipping him with stance and rigour, which he would never forget and always be grateful for.
He wished he had been able to witness the blaze in person, like parents confronted with the fate-forbid, soul crushing, gut splitting and heart wrenching scenario of coming to terms with the fact that the human who had been created and raised in love with their blood, sweat and tears, now lay dying in their arms, an unthinkable, cruel fate reserved only for the unluckiest, no matter how much people believed that what went around came around equally, unflinchingly, suddenly and cruelly.
His sobs renewed, just when a degree of control had returned, as if his brain wasn’t ready to let go yet, as if he were floating in an abyss filled with dark liquid that gleamed pale neon, as if his soul was searching for an equivalent memory to latch on to, only to find that its strongest memory now resembled a canvas of burnt ugly steel protruding from beneath the earth, inviting him towards the entrance to the gates of the netherworld, as if his insides were squirming, screaming even, refusing to come to terms with what had just transpired.
A few minutes later, he was fine. It was three past four in the morning and he had nowhere to go in a few hours.
He needed to find a new work place.
Marijuana Maharaj 