Drunken Talks : A Crack of the Silence
Solitude. A curse. The chime sound reeks of it, personifying an occurred collapse in its travel. It didn’t have a voice. If only it has one, it might heart out its feeling. But, what good is the voice if it sings out a romantic note in a deadly tone? Genuinity ceases to be recognized in its beloved’s sense. Perhaps that’s why it has muted itself till date. Chiming at every hour to grieve for almost a lifetime of its. Except for that it’s a self inflicted curse in the case of John’s.
“Din don, Din don Din don”, the Church bell cries off again, its ballad setting the stage for John’s heart to dance out with his inamorata, which was never his for the taking till date.
When agony troubles and surrounds you for a long time, it’s easy for oneself to empathize and welcome a similar sound of it at the very instance. But this particular chime overwhelmed any other voice of rationality for a strange reason. Bottling up an immeasurable amount of pain within him, John couldn’t, sure as hell, contain himself at this point of time. How many people would actually break down at the chime of a bell? Well you would have to overlook the spirits and the suffering without any drawn insinuation.
A staggering amount of tears forges ahead from his eye to his cheek moistening his thick beard along its course advancing to flood the cigarette held between his lips. It didn’t stand a chance before his impending cloud which precipitated into a torrential downpour.
“Shake it off, you clod, Shake it off”, he mutters shaking his head off, sucking in an immoderate amount of a smoke from the damped cigarette and tosses it on the ground out of misery. The pompous nature of it was reduced to ashes. Like John’s. He stamps on it repeatedly with a strange concoction of hatred and love and screams out, “Aaaargggh!”. His muscles stretch out to the point of wreckage cautioning him to which he pays no heed. He clenches his teeth out of a haunting heartthrob and looks up at the darkness above, whose nudity bears an unnatural and an unattainable resemblance to human desires. Far. Faraway. It walked away from his reach.
“See, for I have a heart, a cold pumping one which beats endlessly for you”, he yells at the standing post. His thick, viscous tears strike down upon the ground with torment. Through an inaudible whisper, he utters a name which has a dye of a hypnotic trance in it ushering him to a far and a precarious land. A honey dewed taste which stinks of smoke emerges out of his lips. Truly, a blasphemy to the relic. A giant sized Goliath scales himself down, unknowingly, to a helpless, stoic David at the very broach of her name. In this testament, David ceases to exist in the end, unlike the sacrilegious stories told.
Smoke. Creeping its way around slowly and kissing the bewildered floor as it takes on it on a sudden account, it transforms into a dense fog. It slithers in to wrap its hand around the barren souls, blanketing the area with unknown white soot. Coiling around John, it obscures and hazes his vision. The light radiating from the post didn’t have a chance in penetrating through the fog’s fort. It could just reach up to the feet of the fog beyond which was strictly off limits for it.
A thick silence swept over the place. A one which has the power to send a shiver down a standard spine, which clearly, John isn’t susceptible to. The absolute effect of it seeped exclusively into his body which seems to be reciprocating and appreciating each and every iota of the intruder, thus making him intoxicated than before.
The silence nibbles his ear, bit by bit erotically and asks,” How do you think she’s going to be if she’s with you?”
Taken aback at the silence breaking its code, its nature and leaving behind its self and questioning him, John thinks for a while, whilst the dry patch strengthens under his eyes owing to his breakdown, and answers,” I don’t know. I would definitely be happy. I think she might be too.”
It moves around in a sexual manner towards his other ear, folding him in its clutch and mutters in a hushed tone, “Johnny boy. That’s where you are wrong.”
The light starts to fluctuate at that point of time, like an indecisive adolescent in a wavered state of mind.
Flick. Blank. Long Pause. Flick. Blank. Long Pause. Like a jammed revolver.
“Look around you, Johnny. The lamppost isn’t radiating light at its distinguished potential anymore. It seems to be agonized, troubled in your presence. Look at it. You just neutralized the light. She would be sucked out of her happiness, left dry, soulless and devoid of any spirit which seemed captivating to you back then. You’re only capable of producing a last light. The moment you touch her lips in your state of catatonia, the shadows would diminish, in fact, it would hibernate itself in an orb of a never awakening turbulent nightmare. And your caress shall be gory dripping of blood.
“Kraa Kraa”, a throaty call penetrates the silence which the light couldn’t achieve.