Lend me a hand

Like a tree I was standing alone in a corner at the road, when I asked myself, “Am I that poor soul?” No. Poor is the soul that knows nothing. I am not talking about the seeds of education. That’s more of a formal custom. Though I am enriched by those seeds as well, yet I am emphasising that I am not at all giving a damn to them. This is about being a human. Of course I am a man, human being, sagacious I am. Not any beast or some cruel. I am my own nation. Whatever a human does for living, I do it too. Living is not a cruel truth.

I think I can’t stand there anymore. The trees stand for centuries, so all alone, in a vacant lot. Have you ever contemplated about a tree? My opinion is entirely different from yours. Their branches are like our limbs. Close your eyes and see in the mind’s eye. They are like us and not like bugs who have wings. Like, how we die? We mostly die laying down. Mostly. And, trees die standing up and up and up, unless they fall down. Right? By the way, I am not acknowledging the trees right now. I am not praising them, even though they are praiseworthy with words like beautiful, strong and sturdy. But I am not doing that.

What am I doing then? I know nothing. God has already sold my poor soul. Maybe for a penny. Nobody could save me. I just talk about being there, among them, doing that, with these, following those. Silly I seem. Yes, I was or maybe I am like a tree. But I was left alone. You said, ‘Love me!’ and I did. Then another one comes, and orders the same. I do understand it now. You helped me stop feeling cold. Yet, it wasn’t worth what you asked for. You left, then another left and then another, until the last one. Some strings remained ‘attached’, mostly vanished. “Are you a saint or a fool?” someone asked me. And I seriously didn’t have any answer. I am known with the antonym of saint, mostly, among all, for some reasons and for the stories I told them.

Where will it end? This noise inside my head. Lend me a hand. Mine are too busy holding my ears. The noise is intolerable. Sometimes I stand, firm as that tree in the corner. Sometimes, like a stone I lie, under the broken tree on the same road. I could recover if and only if I had shrieked this affliction of my heart, this illness, to that passing bird, but I am temporarily unwilling to speak. And they don’t understand the language of silence. Actually nobody understands that.

silence-grey-tree-solitude

All I need to do is change my way. This lack of hate, and this madness are waiting in the room across the road. I don’t know what’s in their store. It’s a multi brand outlet. People get cheerful there. Rejoicing their time, endowing varied gifts. How beautiful are those busy feet of men and women on the street. They are actually on the walk. Door to door. Telling everyone how amazing things are in the store. Soon everyone will see those recreations, God has planned for all. I should also experience that.

But wait. “I don’t have feet” I look down. I am actually a tree. This was all just a dream. This was all just an illusion. I am not a human being. I am not a human being.

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