natural son

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 3:natural son

An auspicious beginning of the tale of a man so very pale, and the bright side of an afternoon comes together under the shade of the leaking roof and an oddly-shaped chair. A beast prowls outside the walls of the house and terror has now struck the peaceful hour. My time has been measured of the consistent length and this journal I keep is finally shaking with words and the ink has choked at the final word before it has been written and every drop of ink that should have been spilt.

How long ago did the panther haunt the midnight door that led me starved of the night where the bells of the city tolled till dawn. The spaces between every word that I never left on purpose as I scratch every pause I stress between every emotion that I conjure of my rash interception. Now again and here again, I watch the night endlessly and the stars of day are still to shine through the brightest day I have yet to see. My satisfaction finally seems to show promise where my hollow reasons have deceived me endlessly but now, I have finally allowed time to move on without me. Tired, did I walk like the bruised dog and left me with a parched tongue that I could not quench. The hours of time grow weary as my mind begins to slow with every second.

Tiring of the blazing afternoon that my thirst should be greater and my blood is mild of my heart’s desires, for wandering the plains like the barefoot sage who cries at the sores on his feet if they were the wounds of his painless life. My imagination has runaway with and now away from me, holding the clouds in its hands as it flees across my mind. The running wild that submits to no form of nature and it has guided me to my bed on the cloud above the mind.

I hold my head in the sudden panic of the settling dust and to crouch over the walls of bricks and stone, to the land of my birth and in an instant the future makes a fool out of me. Raging at the cross that burns at my door, the vision has become clear as the sun has stopped shining and the glass through which I stare into my madness that has consumed and cracked at the blunt edge beneath my thumb.

This natural son and his closing eyes are all that the world must claim for he has no family and no country and yet his happiness remains in himself.