Once upon a time,  Jean Paul Baalayar, gallant, hopeful, and rueful had performed a miracle. Great men stand the test of time but not Baalayar, time consumed him like some big, mushy, sinister, frolicking forest, the wilderness into which Baalayar had suddenly delved into, a never ending epoch of listless struggle.  The hero of this tale now an ordinary common flock, landing straight into the heart of darkness, into the big dark, a mysterious jungle full of incredible trees, trunks, branches, boughs, festoons, sordid creatures created by the almighty but tarnished by human ingenuity, all commingling into a narrow creek flowing mysteriously uphill, towards the greater gloom.  Being hauled up by some obscure mythological creature, Baalayar, being unable to resist the strength, allured, servile yet in his sense like the rapacity of a scoundrel is towed. How much time does it take  for somebody to transform his whole soul from bad to the good or from good to the sinister, just a matter of perception and the whole world changes, worse, flies away from its own heritage towards the greener pastures. It takes a fraction of second for people to turn against each other; brother, mother, lover, obsessions or even patriotism, all takes a fraction of second to change, to digress and tread its way into the heart of darkness.

Two years ago, Baalayar had found a woman, a pretty face, a damsel, not in distress but in epiphany, like the way of an angel, her gracious gait, expensive smile, unwavering charm, audacious character, eccentric yet acceptable, men raved and women follow her,  boys day dreamed and girls were jealous, a persona unmatched to her time, the epoch, but all this escaped Baalayar for, he found a friend in her, a soul attuned for himself, savage when needy and amicable when complacent, their temperament, like a conflagration beguiled by destiny.  His first love. To have shunned from her would have been the better choice at the outset  but fate knew better. Sometime fate frolics with us just for a petty laugh, other times for worse but this time fate wanted a jab at Baalayar, a knockout at the thirteenth round.

She was the talk of every heart for she couldn’t possibly be the talk of the town, her ingenious manipulation, sensual flits and pardonable innocence could but only be adorable to the spectators,  a delightful sight.  People say the ways of women are mysterious and only meticulous observation of individual species can pertain desirable results. But Baalayar knew for sure that there wasn’t much difference between a man and woman. He said to her, “ You see, men are brute, we like to fight and kill, women are beasts, they caper cut and kill, it’s a nuisance”.  She liked to listen to him, most of the time for amusements but other times, in the pretence of incisive frolicking, just to see him get hurt, to play with his heart, to pierce his heart and twist it around, to see him suffer for the noble cause of ensuing romance; like a child cast into a lie only to surprise it with a toy. Baalayar was a child and a gentle kiss would be his toy.  ‘Love is like a strawberry shrub, if you don’t water it, it dies but hate is a cactus which survives, marooned’, she giggled, he squirted, inside.

She consumed him, his flesh, thoughts, love and even hatred. He felt apathy towards others, that feverish, contagious sensation, love, it had consumed him like what consumes a mad, the fragments of illusion, fretted by the creep of one’s thoughts, the unbearable obscurity, laughter in the face of arrogance, that innocence, he exuded such filth.  When the love you get is not pure, we wallow in such filth, like pigs on acid or something.  Why do we wallow, why are we in love with another person even when it hurts, when one knows, the future is  bleak, and the present, unbearable. What is it that captivates a human soul, that chains our freedom and deceives our heart when all we wanted was a speck of love, that benevolence yet we cling. Was it self-pity or ego, Baalayar never knew. He was busy wallowing in filth.  Maybe he was addicted, to pain, to the monstrosity of human minds, subconscious pleasures in heartache, that addiction, not depression but a specific kind of illness depicting hedonistic attributes at its core, abreast his love.

Guilt, a pure form of emotion. The kind of sadness it exudes is appalling, it reeks like a mixture of napalm and death. Soldiers fight a physical war, ricocheting bullets, fusillades, explosions, mortality, banal outcomes, but lovers, the romantics, they are a different kind of breed, they die, all of them die in the end, a gruesome death, they may appear living, breathing, smiling and frolicking but when morality in people die its useless to assume a living person, for, they die with it too. Revenge, the purest of emotion. It transcends barriers, religion, perceptions, insatiable consequence.  The thirst of revenge is unyielding, the ravenous desires can only grow but it cannot quench the thirst.

Baalayar was in war with guilt and revenge.  When fate did get knock him out in the thirteenth round, he was not just defeated but he was drained out, hopeless and bullied. Most of all, he was culpable to defeat. It was truly appalling, the guilt.  When you throw a bone to the dog, don’t expect it back.

When Baalayar expatriated himself, wrenching his wound, wanting more pain, exuding pleasures, he realized the magnitude of his situation.  He realized what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He was strong now that he overcame the overwhelming need for pain, the hatred, revenge, he was strong but he was still vulnerable.  He didn’t die like others. He lived again, he felt the bland breeze, the glowing sunshine, he could break the snag in his path, the serried trees were fascinating again, ripples were mere encumbrance, life was again a cipher to be decoded,  he flickered and felt alive, overwhelmed with possibilities, nonchalant about future.  Well, it was just a matter of a second, the amount of time it takes a man to change, for better or worse. It was a miracle indeed. In other words, he was in love once again.

Idiocy, an insatiable need to act like one.