Clouds, Birds, Rains, Us: The Tenth Circle

journey from looking without to within.

I looked out through the glass windows and watched

them floating. Like thick wisps of darkened smoke,

regurgitated from a factory chimney, in slow motion,

drifting across the vast sky, while all around a blanket

of heavy darkness seemed to settle, like some

watchful mother, smothering her child to her breasts.

I kept watching as with dimming daylight, they appeared,

leagues of them, some though single, steering a course

towards home, forgotten during the hustle bustle

of the day. I heard them tweeting, seemingly mindless

chattering that was really a floating huddle, an impromptu

meeting for exchanging the news for the day, or perhaps

singing one last song together, before parting for the night,

each on a different note, yet striking strangely a symphony,

so harmonious that the mind and ears that listened,

secretly savoured the spontaneity. All this time, they

continued; the familiar pitter patter, reckless trickles and

streaming bursts, muddied moistness rising to the nostrils,

a strong scent reminding of existential earthiness, while

resplendent greens go viral with fertility and runs from

contamination. Did anyone mind? Not the world, none

but them, chained to their mean-minded boundaries, yet

their carousing and sometimes, sober revelries were full

of uninhibited bandying of punch words and lines,

accompanied by psychedelic item numbers and lustful

lap-dances. They defined everything earnestly, claimed

all with boastful generosity, conceit never sounded so

natural and deserving. Were they so blind that the cloying

illusions escaped their notice, and their puny existence,

overlooked; hungry appropriation of the bounties, unremitting;

like some ridiculously over-fattened lord ravishing

the larder’s content and the maiden’s virginity, in a glut

of sensuousness? I paused. The track that the mind had

taken seemed to saddle the soul with weariness; how

did I get from a casual observation outside of me to an

inward examination and self-whipping? For to be honest,

ignoring the intellectual masturbation of celebrating

a false individual superiority, was I not also them? Could

I really claim exception? No, for if I stay true to one of my

earlier lines of philosophy, I was a taker, like every one of them, "

selfish to the core, lapping up the luxuries and comforts

conveniently. Where is the redemption then? Did I ask

myself? What if I did? Nothing works better than good old

self-deception, right? Truly did one say that there ought to

have been a tenth circle of hell, the most freezing, and

tortuous with no mercy, no kindness, relentless with no hope,

reserved for me, us, all. The messiah is just not dead, he never was!