Chronicles of a HeadCase.

At the dusk of a battle ground, after a war had taken place… a somber feeling of defeat and survival… there is no victory, only solace. For nothing is won and so much is lost. The foul stench of sweat, blood and death lingers in the air… the skies filled with red clouds tinted by the moon. Birds of prey circle the desecrated land to feed on the bodies of the sacrificed. On this landscape, there are no sides, no differences, no more hate… only death.

Yet, look! the sun rises… another day comes… four riders gallop to the shimmering light and dissappear into a sandstorm the hooves of haste had created. As they reach the top of the hill, the sight is awe and the beauty is far. The grass is blue and green, whilst the light from the sun shatter the rays into a multi dimesional prism of life as it is broken down by the mist and life that fills the air. What a sight of revelation, yet at the corner of your eye… the death of so many just beyond a foothill. We will carry the dead in our memories, says the captain in a stern voice… there are too many to bury and we will never mourn enough for all that is lost and all that will be lost. Cursed war and cursed kings of men. We live for another day, let us make it count for our fallen brethren. On that note, the riders streaked off into the colors of an unknown land. Decidedly leaving the wars and worries of the world, travelling from one land to another, seeing and living life for those who were lost in the senseless battle for more senseless reasons. They serve none but the will of life and the will to power. They serve themselves and the fate that lies before them.

Years later, the youngest of the four riders strides on foot through a foreign land. The riders had journeyed far and wide together, but had since parted ways in the paths of their lives. After years of travel and fending for himself, the young rider had come across an infinite array of faces, cultures, jokes, stories, words, dances and songs. So many personalities and characters of life had passed before his eyes and his mind. One thing became apparent to him, each person he met was a story. After a million stories, he could guess most of how each story goes; as years pass, the tales didn’t grow taller… he found that he had cut them down to size… the stories lost its color from the rider’s mind. One early day, as he walks across a bazaar in the morning marketplace, a merchant tugs on his sleeve. Young man! Please, buy this mirror from me, so that I may feed my sick daughter. As the rider glanced at the merchant, and looks at and into the mirror. He did not recognize himself… and his name? … what… is my name? which is it?? The rider stumbles into the crowded bazaar, baffled by his confusion and his sudden struggle to grasp what he had left behind a decade ago… he found himself gasping to breathe, yet there was air everywhere… the young man ducked into an empty street and paced himself to calm his thoughs… what happened? a void had filled in the place of himself…. how did this happen?

TO BE CONTINUED…

*Artwork by Stanislav Plutenko (www.sirin.co.uk)

~ by case on August 18, 2005.