The Sign of the Light

Tables turn, bridges burn,you live and you learn!

If there ever was a sign, this was it and Sins felt tugs, rips and pulls pulsating across his body as if he were gliding across an ocean of red, blue and green, in search of the elusive forbidden fruit. Voices, tunes and jingles were an understatement, for whatever said and done, how could the lament of the heart, so unbeknownst and elusive, ever account for the nature of the world, so wanton and empty at times?

Hunger was coming, and it felt as if it didn’t matter, for what mattered was the fact that darkness, a ruthless, unmerciful agony, that screamed and growled at times, found itself being kept at bay, seemingly because of a light that had emerged from nowhere, into the throes of his life, as if seeking to pull him out of the abyss he had managed to sink himself into. Whether it was an abyss, he did not know. He didn’t even know if such things existed. What he knew did exist was a feeling, a tinge of hope amidst a pool of depravity, debauchery and untold horrors of an evil nature.

The light had shone three days back.

He was convinced it was a light. For if it was not, he wouldn’t have found himself radiating towards it. And radiating towards it, he was. Like a pulverizing shard of metal ripping itself into his cells, obliterating every nucleus that sought to degrade the quality of his life. Quality of life? It didn’t matter if life was a cesspool of highs, lows, pains, pointlessness and pleasure of every kind. It also didn’t matter if he fell nowhere on a scale that served to signal one human being’s importance over another. It also didn’t matter if he felt that on some days, thoughts of a corrupt nature enter his mind, aiming to subject him to impulses, some of which included chainsaws, machetes, steel and industrial-scale grinders.

What mattered was there was light.

And the light felt good, for it served to push him in a direction that he felt he had been incapable of taking, in spite of knowing. The path existed. The movement would be his. Yet, in the deepest, deepest recesses of his mind, he hoped the light would emerge just when the the last rays of sunlight gave way to the dark. Like the first drop of water quenching a drought-laden thirst. Like the first few steps towards the route to salvation, if such a thing existed. Like a calm breeze comforting his soul after a long day spent in front of pricks, jerks, wannabes and everything in between. Like a flash of thunder dispersing the hordes of masses who only served to bow themselves and others with them into submission, as if preying on the flesh of the lights of the world, who sought to keep it glowing amidst all odds.

He would make sure the light glowed.

For if it didn’t, what was to be done with the self-serving, aggrandizing, impulsive wreckage, whose residues lay splattered across his mind as if silently goading him, enticing him to wipe the light out? What was to be done with speeches that served to enlighten no one but the senseless mobs whose only purpose seemed to be the destruction of others? What was to be done with the hate, that seemed to spew across from all sides like a fountain of meekness? What was to be done with the self-proclaimed intellectuals who prophesied feelings of danger, anger and thoughts bordering character assassination? For all he cared, for as long as he lived, and for as long as the power of the written word lay with him, he swore.

The light would remain.