Destruction: Uncertain reality within folds of obscurity.

Listen to: Oltremare (Meaning, Overseas) – Ludovico Einaudi.

Once upon a time; no, not a time, once upon a winter, no, not sure if it was winter, once upon a March – no, it could not have started then.

Once upon the unknown lived her, with them, with those, with these, and all of them. Once upon a dream, she was happy. She was told the euphoria she felt was not temporary, and it was true happiness at last. Her sins have corrupted her to the extent that she feels no atonement, no remorse, no regret, nothing; zero, zilch, nada.

Part of being guilty is knowing when to stop, is believing deep down that no matter how bottomless it may be, she shall land gracefully when she submits her soul for acceptance, when she lets go of retaliation and live for the moment.

Everyone sins, you know. We are no angels or prophets. We are made of flesh and breakable bones. We are but a mere crack in a perfect portrait filled with insanity. We are not sane, no. We cannot be. Part of becoming a sinful being is understanding our actions and their impacts on his, and then doing them regardless of the consequences. That is what defines a sin from a deed and vice versa. What if, however, we are at haze and cannot define what from what. What if we do the wrong thing for the right reasons, or the right thing for the wrong reasons; which becomes which, and will we ever be judged for our mindless experimentations in this forsaken life?

Let the preacher preach about purity and clarity while he climaxes with his mistress, let politicians lie their way into and out of corruption, let the saint listen through the confessional as those blind followers confess to their seemingly sinful actions as he robs yet another charity, let the elite spend the money of the poor on plastic surgeries and resorts abroad, yes, yes let them. Let them tie strings around us and move us as puppets as they please. Yes, yes, let them. Let governments promise citizens overdue reforms as they kill those who demand them.

Condemn the clerk for making us pay a few pounds extra, so his children will dream of bread once a week. Condemn the child who wipes our car windows under the sun, so his tears clean his face as he walks home. Condemn the gardener for overwatering the plants, so he learns that flowers and mud are more important than his children’s future. Condemn activists who dared to defy the stereotype, so we throw them in jail and pay for their torture with our taxes. Yes, yes, condemn.

Condemn protesters in your country, yes, condemn them, how dare they scream out freedom? How dare they endanger their lives for this absurd myth? How dare they get shot by the police? How dare they get beaten to death by uniforms? Condemn them, throw them in jail, torture them, sing for the rich, and kill the poor.

Pay for executions, pay for the loss of our privacy, pay, yes, pay, we sold our soul to them the moment we hushed when they ordered us to hush, the moment we nodded when they forced our heads to nod, the moment we believed a poorly painted picture over the disgusting reality they burned, yes, pay them, we owe them everything.

A sin is to be silent when speaking is costly. A sin is to stand firm when moving is the only way out, the only way out.

    • Imad
    • July 24th, 2011

    Nice , but only when Tiresias spoke did the tragedy of Oedipus unfold. Some people are not meant to speak and move, but to observe and learn. They neither condemn nor commend, and they take no sides. They work in silence, while the universe moves. It is a great mistake when they interfere; do not ask them to.

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