Sunday, April 21, 2013
Postcards from Padfoot-2: The Return of 'It'
It came knocking again. After over an year's hiatus. Right when things were looking up, and he was beginning to get hopeful that he will never see him, it, again. It took him completely by surprise, and he hardly had the time to realise what was about to strike. One moment he was strolling in the backyard of his suburban Sydney apartment, smoking a marlboro, and the very next everything seemed to stretch impulsively away from him and the universe went elastic. He could feel all the blood in his body rushing to his head, the vein in his temple throbbing, and that familiar smell of a heady sense of purpose. He could feel every muscle in his chest contract and relax rhythmically, and almost count the extremely controlled and deep breathing. He was strangely conscious of how exactly and accurately aware of his environment he had become in the few seconds that had elapsed since it struck. He saw the tiny thing scoot past him and right under the door out of the corner of his eyes. His fists were clenched so hard he could feel his nails digging into his palm as his knuckles went white. Even in the 11-low of late Autumn Sydney his forehead was covered in sweat, and he could feel the cold trickle of sweat climbing down his spine. He tried to control the shivering of his arms. He hoped, prayed, that the tiny little thing was safely inside, behind the wooden door. It was costing him every bit of resolve he could master to stop giving in to what he knew so well he, it, wanted. It would be so easy just to give in. Let it take over. Let it feast, one more time. Let it take care of all the memories of all the shades of grey- lies, insults, humiliations, betrayals, mockeries. It would be so easy to channel all of it into it. He knew how good it is at cleansing with crimson. But he promised himself, last time. He promised he will never let it take control again. Things are broken inside. Some damages can only be painted over. Never healed. There is a monster inside. Begging for a kill. He thought he had it under control. It had let him be for over an year. But he was wrong, he now thought. It was only that dear old city keeping it at bay. He had said this before- he cannot exactly put this into writing, or even put it in words, but there was something strange, beautifully and serenely so, about that city that soothed and calmed his nerves. Its grey skies, drizzling horizons and year long cold breeze put something very ancient and very elemental inside him to a deep slumber. Even as he recollected all these, he could almost feel the cool year-long rain of the city he unwillingly left behind drenching his hair, as he walked up the sloping S*m***s St., up towards The Village. But here, in the sun-kissed, dry Sydney desert, things are a lot different. Amid the bulls and bears of the megapolis, it yearns to be freed. There is no poetry here. No muse. There are only hot shots, and big timers. No country for dreamers or poets, this. In the land of the Heroes and the Villains, the Beast will not be denied.