apples and oranges

like a rabbit am i
and i go rabitting
as i please i am not
chasing cups, chips
tokens or butterflies
i am running restless
but i am not chasing
i am running to
the finishing line
not chasing nothing


the sombre tenor came late, too late and anyway i was too obsessed to be able to report in a steady voice the umpteenth tragedy of the workday. it is largely sexual. having said that i want all to think about it; i dont easily commit. there was a short story id once read, couldve been anyone, saki, ohenry, owilde, which climaxed with the man who was a factory man getting his hand grievously caught in the machine and something to do with her being the nurse or something whose reaction is retrospective horror. the moral of the story though was of loves indomitable will. like mealy potatoes, the boy so bullied but never out. never sulking or nothing.

these heroic tales appear vague antique models which have value only in museums, in this year of our lord etc. i believe the last time something like this occurred the world had passed one major bout of intercontinental warfare and was diving head on into another. this story, of the insistent spiritedness of love, was written by whoever wrote it some time before the great depression.

but what happens to office in the time of meltdown. it retains its tragedy. only this time nobodys joking. nobody is nobodys fool anymore. so here the umpteenth tragedy of the cubicle is the closing in, the shrinking as it were of everything. the very spaces which would once offer so much to the participating reduced to a carefully designed set of protocols. the very chairs and furniture that had been the site of one generation's dream filling the next with horror. all the fear and hence all the morbid fascination that had lurked in the locked up rooms of the old offices set free and now filling up all the air with a manic whirr of psychopathy. that is the dark side. the tragedy of the eponymous workday. now i am tired of this. outside its morning.


nb: but what if this story was written in the gd. then too it is a monument to love only much bigger. and obviously my vision is corrupted. it redeems the demons, rewards the troubles. for what is the greater joy between having your faith rewarded and your fears confounded. the believer's felicity and a luck of the faithless.