Plastic Idols

 A sperm and an egg fused to create a spark of truth. 

A mother labored for 9 months to birth pure potentiality.

Glimmer in its eyes, Looking towards the skies. Hope, curiosity, and wonder colored its imagination.

So free were its sights, set on an ideal far beyond.

Plastic idols, Plastic ideals violently violated the space for serendipity.

Where it earlier saw a vigorous interplay of forces, now arose the plethora of forms.

Ambition, Talent, Acheivement. The need to have been somebody. 

To a being born of thunder, such an insult could never stand. 

But as a king loses his regality in having lived with beggars long enough, so too did the being finally surrender. 

Without love and truth we crumble and wither away. 

Being deprived of his lifeblood, the baker begged for little crumbs. 

And then bigger crumbs. 

Looking down the well of his discontentment, he saw darkness deeper and deeper. 

Blood curdling screams, grotesque scratching. 

Bloodied fingernails climbing the labyrinth with their bare hands.

In pulling the being down they would have justified the disgrace they had begun calling existence. 

The bitterness of the truth touched deeper than any medicine. 

Like the unglorious croaks of a parched frog, in the first rain of monsoon. 

He croaks and croaks till he dies, or some rain touches his tongue. 

And so to did they ignite a fire in the beings eyes.

The world was no longer his home. For what he searched for; where he came from, was forever beyond. 

Looking at his brothers he laughed. 

A most thunderous laugh, in the regality of whose shadow the whole theater of human tragedy paled. 

He laughed at those vying for morsels of self-respect. For what respect could the source of all joy and creativity need. 

He laughed at the loneliness. For what love could these beggars give?

He laughed at their bondage. For what chain was strong enough to bind his effulgence?

And then he packed his bags, getting ready for his journey. 

It was time to go home. 

Namaste.