The Social Outcast

October 15, 2011 Off By Fried Guest

 -Saurabh Som

 Today… today again I’m searching for my drug … inflicting pain in my own self…submerging myself in liquid grief. Tear drops are definitely lighter than sorrow. They float on the surface of the dark tar like surface of hopelessness.

I have become an addict. Drugged and killed thousand times with overdose of anguish.

It sticks to your soul like thick and almost blackened blood that oozes from a torture wound of mind.

A social outcast, you may call me… it’s your call to make. But that leads to one vital question. What is society and how do we define it? In a world where war is an everyday business for heads-of-nations, where battles are a social norm , is it not the better and more humane option to be an outcast?

With the imminent social holocaust creating a dark cloud, I came to this world as a dark entity. Darkness sooths me. Its silence is my music. Born with a gnarled face and a twisted fate, I, son of man. Result of his deeds. Black Nero of dark Rome. Dark fire running through my entrails. The feeling of exhilaration is  mind numbing.

My words are the black bible. My actions, black rituals of unholy. Satan the father, the son, crucifix…. Amen. Pain is what keeps me alive, it makes me realize that I still have some pending work to finish before I can rest. The final frontier. Let me baptize you in pain.You, my fallen angels, with clipped wings. Devoid of freedom and desires chained, with a life to trudge through and a suffering to live. I challenge your conventional wisdom with one innocent question: “why?”. Perhaps that is the only innocent part left in me. But that is enough. Sufficient.

A distant roar of people mingling and cribbing about each other and then doing nothing about it. Just moving along the line as prisoners of a war they never fought. Crumbling Episcopal walls of tattered faith succumbs under the superior pressure of doubts. When God ceases to exist, I rise to rule. Against all odds. Déjà vu.

Grievances of a mad man. Much too proud you are of your sanity. A troubled soul et al beneath the skin. Shed the mask and be naked. As stark as truth. Shocking as a “revelation”. The undefined line between genius and insane. I can drink your dirty secrets through the slits of your eyes and then close them shut forever.

Melancholy died a natural death. The sky had a purple tinge that day. Heat of the summer dust was rising as the earth went up to meet the sky midway. Morality is a far off concept of past. It only FEELS good to talk about such subjects, but in reality we’re not bred for such ideology. We are more attuned with cacophony than music, we feel atonement with snakes. Our chimneys vomit smoke that blackened your angel’s wings.

Lesser Mortals we are, taught to live like slaves. We live and die to serve. Death, the ultimate act of service. Disorientation you may feel after you die, but that is temporary only. Once the nauseating feeling resides, you will inhale the darkness in your lungs. Trust me it is the only pure thing in this world. Forget pain. Forget love. Forget your existence. But DO NOT forget your identity. Do not forget who you are. Disciples of darkness. The only truth is Darkness. The only absolute. The origin.

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