A man lived in a house of stones by the dried banks of an ancient river. He lived in that house, with ants who were judgmental. They kept prejudice and warned the man, of his plans. They were pragmatic, so they said. They spoke to him of truth regardless of how discouraging it would be. And the man would often have very little for his defense. For he was waiting for the river to come. "Everything would be better when the river shall come down this valley", he would propose. "I'm here,as much as you are. Biding my time. With only hope in mind. And a lonesome heart. For what else is my redemption? I wait obediently for something that might never come. Unlike my nature,I've been here".
He had built this house on his own. Each layer of stone, he had cemented by pain and all the wrong that he had done in his past. He was not a bricklayer before, mind you. His expertise lied in something rather strange. He was a weaver of sorts. Of an unpleasant kind. For he wove lies. With his tongue and his eyes. And oh the shrewd kings of august world swear by his methods! Every fabric he designed with intimate detail and each one a masterpiece of its kind. Each one, très magnifique, than the predecessor.
But his charm was bound to wear off. And one twitch of an eye at the wrong place at the wrong time brought the impending downfall of the poor man. But he couldn't stop. He didn't know how to. The lies had become him and he was more of the lies than himself. It was sometime then, amidst an uproar of disagreement in the social stands, that he was banished from the land of men.
However there were few who didn't find his presence, a threat to their lives. 'He was living his act, that fine man', told someone who knew him too close to this narrator. 'He didn't built the act himself. But, it was his to live. The man bore a stigma so let him be.' But the support for such liberal thoughts, as always are few.
However there were few who didn't find his presence, a threat to their lives. 'He was living his act, that fine man', told someone who knew him too close to this narrator. 'He didn't built the act himself. But, it was his to live. The man bore a stigma so let him be.' But the support for such liberal thoughts, as always are few.
However, I would like to take this opportunity to raise a question to my venerated audience. It pertains to a similar thought:
God, time and probably a trickery in gene sequencing shape us in a certain way. In The Book of Man, if some defaults are condemned as heresy, then shall we play the role of messiah and purge such 'heretics' from this agony? Is it even agony at the first place? Or is it just for the sake of our own convenience, that we have made ourselves believe that everything about madness is abnormally sad?
