Tragedy of Wanderer

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Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He never really understood how to cook his thoughts well; he often ended up burning them or serving them half cooked. He must learn how to cook thoughts well, he decided. It was a shame he felt unbearable, he felt as if he was too uncivilized to live among people, grown-ups, who know how to speak, what to speak, who to speak and so on. He looked at himself and all he could find is he only knew either how to scream or how to whisper and none of it concerned the world; for such abnormalities are forbidden past households beyond the walls of graveyards. Graves he felt was only place where one could do as one wished. But, even winning a right of grave was not easy, you must prove your candidature, you must yourself eligible, even if by pretending to be the just right candidate only to act the way you wished to. This thought puzzled him. Why must he pretend to act as he wished, but only probably because he was yet to know how the world works, what it prefers to eat and what it prefers to throw away?  Well, he did know he might be thrown out of plate for being over-cooked or half-cooked and then he would be nothing but food for few street dogs and some beggars who could not find anything better to eat. He felt sick, He was yet to learn how to cook his thoughts well and it was already dark; Night was growing over him slowly.

He decided to peel his skin, chop self into pieces, wash himself off his tears, and dip into fresh blood off his veins, before putting himself over his flesh and bones, to be cooked well upon the dim flame off the moon. The night was too young to frighten him, it was rather innocent and cried inconsistently every now and then over how he was not taking care of it. He was annoyed but he kept his calm, he did not want to spoil the process. He was determined to cook those subtle thoughts well tonight.

It was past midnight; drenched in the smoke off the pan he had put himself tonight. He could not see anything and vaguely played his fingers around and found himself drowned in saliva and sperms. He hurried to take it out and blow air around to cool it down. He wanted to take a good look, to confirm if it had cooked well, he was scared as well excited as a young teenager right before first sex. He felt he was either going to lose himself or to find himself like never before.

Our tragedy does not lie in the idea that we could not fit in the world, it lies in the idea that we try to fit ourselves in the world. He had committed similar crime. He could not see what was there on the plate, he was too afraid to even look at it. Cooking self to suit the palate of others had made him cook a monster. He felt as if he was lying in the plate, smoked and grilled, burnt to the point where nothing remains other than yourself, pieces of charcoal lying around, sort of black hole. He felt his cries and laughter making him deaf, his dreams and nightmares blinding him, his words mocking him standing right beyond horizon asking him to come out and pick them to poetry. He never felt more helpless than this. He had a feeling of déjà vu such moment will come. Pretension cannot lead you for long, you must return to face yourself, dead or alive; as those posters said in the streets outside for criminals who stole stuffs and acted as if too rich to buy several shots of scotch before passing out right outside the gates of the bar. Like them, he felt once drunk he too always needed someone to carry himself home. Sick!

He must learn to cook his thoughts well. It was past twilight already and soon the dawn would come with all its might. He must hurry…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 12/02/2016