By Sadho Ram
…and you thought I’m dead. And you celebrated my death. And you laughed. Hysterically. Insanely. Knowing that I’m dead. That I now am burnt to cinders. And you uttered your frustration of not being able to utter it while I was living. While I had what you considered not mine. But yours.
You feared that I would bring you out of your ignorance. Your age old slumber. Your blind hope. You feared that I would shatter your love for superficial things. Artificial beliefs. And you panicked. You shivered in your slumber. And you decided to kill me. You decided to hang me by my own rope. And you did it. You killed me in your foully ignorant thought. And now you are moaning? Because you know it hurts. Now you feel the pain that I told you would.
But you are afraid. Still too weak to show it. So you laugh. So you celebrate your own failure. Your own death at your own hand. You… you ignorant son of a conscious whore. You loathing seed of a foolhardy man.
You know it takes honesty. And you know it well. That thing called honesty to confront honesty. As it takes a hand to shake another. As it takes lips to kiss another. But you did never consider it a part. It was just a trait. It was only an option for you. A mere excuse for you to hide. To take refuge when you needed. When your own failure haunted you. So you played a game. A game of seeing the reality as it should and accepting the make-believes as it was intended. And what did you do, you courageous carrier of deceit and failure? You chose the latter!