Where Is My Hand?

So I bolted out of the hall feeling high like someone on drugs and rising in the air like balloon. I had just finished an exam and my course mates were eagerly waiting outside for me to come and relate to them the information I had. Scattered higgledy-piggledy like sheep without shepherd, probably discussing the exam questions, I knew what I needed to do –gather them together– and that was exactly what I did. Then, I began addressing them, oh it had been a while I dazzled them with my witty speeches and comic remarks. They quietly listened to the sentences dropping smoothly from my mouth word hook line, sinker and were enjoyably gulping down every word as if they were inspirational quotes from motivational books or a best-selling novel worth being glued to. Were they memorizing my words like an inspirational poem in a poetry collection?

Lost among them, there I was feeling like Jesus Christ because no one could know that I was their leader. It wasn’t up to three minutes I started, like the shock of bad news, I was interrupted when I was told that somebody was calling me. I left after taking permission from my people; they didn’t even mind, they gave it to me readily. When I got there, I met four men standing and one of them, a tall, dark, clean-shaven, quite handsome man dressed in suit who spoke:

Death, How Mean Thou Art

On a hill far away stood that old rugged demon, an emblem of suffering and shame. “Why have you done this? This was not our agreement! Why should you leave us alone? How do you expect us to cope with living without you? Does it mean we will not see again in this life? God, why? Why? It shouldn’t be you! What have we done to deserve your death? Wake up! Don’t go now…!”

Those are some of the mournful, depressing words, tragic quotes and uninspiring poems you’ve caused to come out of the lips of innocent mouths; those are the terrible lyrics of horrible agony songs that you’ve caused people you never knew and families that never planned nor rehearsed it to sing as if they were choristers. You just come in uninvited, grab your victim unprepared and take them without any consolation. No thanks to you, sad memories of our deceased loved ones surge through our minds. We can’t but point accusing fingers at you! How cruel you are in manner! How cold you are in deeds! This guy is no literature and fiction, he is for real.

The Joy Of Wining And The Pain Of Losing

And that’s the final whistle! The moment we’ve all been waiting for! Hear the loud deafening cheer. Feel the ecstasy in the air. They are not in a state of euphoria, they’re launching into unrestricted, interminable happiness. They can’t believe their eyes and ears. They are lost for words to express their excitement. Take it anywhere, you can’t reverse the decision.

See them running up and down like children on playground. They’re congratulating one another, hugging themselves, raising one another shoulder-high. No one can dampen their ardour or stop them as they throw new dance steps. No one can turn them off as they sing their new songs of inspiration. At best you’ll watch, at worst you’ll walk away. They’ve become a new source of inspiration just seeing their celebration and hearing their story of glory. When they interview them, their words and experience altogether become an inspirational poem on the tabloids of history and their statements quotable quotes lavishly splashed all over the media fronts.