The Garden of Loneliness

He woke up amidst darkness. It seemed to be a clearing in a forest. The trees flanked the clearing from all sides. They were tall and dense in their leaf cover with a dark green coat. Though he could see (what appeared) as the sky over their towering heads, he could not guess the size of the forest, it appeared to span on for leagues altogether.

There was no sound. There was absolute silence akin to that within a morgue. The trees, the blades of grass, the shrubbery in between - everything was still. Nothing moved. It was cold inside the clearing. Though it did not frighten him or appear to threaten him with horrors, he felt melancholic. There was no familiar fragrance of the forest. Something appeared amiss.

He wondered. Where was he? How did he end up here?

He saw a lady afar. She was walking towards him without any haste. She was convinced that there was nowhere for him to run. Barefoot she walked, pressing the grass with her white feet. She was a fair lady; fair of skin, delicate yet sharp in features, well defined jawbone, piercing black eyes yet slender in frame and graceful in her gait. Long flowing black hair which matched her eyes. She was clad in white. Her face shone with a ghastly brightness. He would have have termed her as exceedingly beautiful. However, she appeared surreal. He could not decide if she was evil though she did not seem to be.

They both stood facing each other. She gazed at him as if penetrating his form with her eyes through a thousand spears as she searched. She smiled at him fully in control of herself. He had not seen such beauty before (nor such majesty as she wielded). But there was a thaw in that smile, something uncanny. 

He asked her, "What is this place? How did I get here? Who are you lady? What is your business here?"

She nodded understandingly as if she had anticipated this. "You are in a garden. I am the lady of this garden. I am known as Loneliness." She replied with a firm voice which matched the coldness of her appearance. "This place is my garden. The Garden of Loneliness. It is impossible to enter this garden except if you have strongly wished to enter it or if you truly deserve to be alone."

He asked her again, "I wish to leave this place at once. Please point me the way towards the exit. I don't know how I ended up here. I cannot remember anything." 

She laughed hoarsely. "Nothing could have brought you here except a true desire to enter my garden. The size of this garden as it appears to you is a direct culmination of your desire. You must have truly desired to enter this garden. I have never beheld such an enormous extent of the forest."

He gazed at her truly perplexed "you mean I created this garden? You call this a garden?"

She replied, "For yourself, yes. You did play a role. The size of the forest, the deafening silence, the absence of any motion or in other words, any hint of life - These bear testimony to the fact that your desire to enter this garden was far beyond normal. There is no way out of this place." 

He stared at her, shocked with disbelief. "Are you for real?" He asked.

"You still don't get it, do you? I am a projection of your own self. I am the projection of your deepest desires which even you do not fathom completely. My form reflects the being which you desired the most. But then if you crave for something (or someone) that strongly, you have to go till the very edge to obtain that object. In the world of humans, this is termed as obsession or in simple words - madness. However, you can only go so far. In your case, you went beyond all realms. Even madness is too light a word to describe the ends to which you went. In your search, you left everyone behind, everything behind. Now you are secured here with me till the end of time. Isn't that which you always wanted?" She solemnly quipped.

"I wanted beauty. I wanted truth. I wanted sincerity. In their absolute terms. I wanted to repel mediocrity, hypocrisy, ignorance. I did not wish for all this." He gasped.

"Now meditate again on what you just said. You will understand that your presence here is not unwarranted for. Your quest would lead a person only to this path alone - to the garden of Loneliness." She smiled.

He stared around him, as if searching for a path - a path which could point him to an exit. She amusingly observed him. "There is no way out. The Sun does not dawn here. The darkness grows with each moment and will slowly, very slowly consume you. I leave you here now. I can't be seen as giving you company and therefore violating the basis of my garden's existence. Enjoy (or endure) your stay here. You have earned it. No one escapes ever the garden of Loneliness. No one dies here. No one lives here." She started moving away.

"Hey. Tell me one thing. Is this real or is it only going on in my head?" He pleaded.

"Ofcourse it is going on in your head. But why should it not be real" She winked and walked off.

The Lady of the Citadel

 He stood on the pinnacle. The horizons spanned without end, revealing nothing but nothingness. The stars prepared to drown into another day of oblivion as the Sun cast its shroud.

He had been forewarned to not climb up the summit. It was a harsh climb, which tested a Man physically but tortured him far more mentally. But he had not looked back. Though he had his moments of frailties and self doubts, he had plodded on. Bruised, tired, parched and hungry yet his face glowed brighter than the child who had started the climb. 

He sat there. There was no applause to commend his ascent. No one would know the heights which he had reached. But he had never looked for recognition. He was lonely. It was his summit. He was its Lord. 

He gaped around in wonder. Was the loneliness his prize? To not die amongst billions of mortals a conventional death, but to die on a pinnacle, his pinnacle.

He beheld a greater peak opposite to his perch. The chasm between them was wide. On the peak stood a Citadel. It was not possible to estimate the scores of centuries which shielded its age. But it would not have been less than the abode of the Gods (or as we know them)

There stood a Lady on its terrace. Tall, serene, wise, noble and sharp. Her face was fair with proud cheeks and fiery black eyes. Her frame was slender and yet she was unperturbed by the gusts of wind which fanned her long locks of flowing dark hair and the first sun rays which touched her skin. She had been born on the Citadel and was its keeper. None bothered her as she was protected by the sheer immensity of the peak on which the Citadel stood.

He had never beheld such beauty (without and within). She was proud but content with herself. Devoid of any guilt of her greatness. He felt himself filled with mirth and admiration as he looked at her. Here was one, untouched and unscarred by Time. The seed of all purity and its beauty, which we mortals seek (though each of us does so with different intensities and honesties) and aspire to achieve in a life, maybe even a hundred. He now was aware of what divinity meant. The prize of his pinnacle! He thanked himself. 

Her gaze fell on him. Nothing could remain hidden from her as her eyes penetrated his form. She saw his handsome frame, his powers, his virtues, his resolve, his grit, his guilts, struggles, fears and pain which he had devoured through his years. She saw his radiance and his puissance as he perched on his pinnacle. A King amongst Men and A Man amongst Kings. At last, a soul had risen to the realm of Gods because he dared and because he deserved.

His gaze met hers. She acknowledged his gaze with her eyes and the subtlest (but conspicuous) of nods. 

A communication took place in a glance which was nothing short of a conversation across eternity.

Amen. Peace. 

His Finest Hour

Dominique Francon.

A Good Man goes to War

How could they be so gross, how could they be so blind,
They humiliated him, they put the Good Man in a bind,
The Desert fumed, the Rivers ran wild,
The Sky tore out and the Universe had its ogres lined,
The Ocean mad, its creatures twined,
The Dementors roared in rapture, they had no mind,
Five Billion of them had risen, they besieged him from the front and hind,
Five Billion of them could not, suppress the glory of mankind.

The Good Man laughed, he knew well their kind,
He was born to wrestle them with his mind,
The universe trembled, when his aura shined,
He set forth with all the will in him enshrined,
He would not lose, all the world's good was at stake behind,
Ten billion years had passed, there were more ahead of him to grind,
His strength was nearly spent, yet there was always some more that he could find
What choice he had with him, He was destined to protect, the glory of mankind.

What horrors had he fought! how much more lay further in time,
What was the price of the thing he protected, he knew well in his mind,
To him had been the fairest of humanity assigned,
He could not dare stop, the best of the world would be maligned,
The light of the star he protected, would in his exhaustion always him remind,
The power of that music, the power of that innocence was too hard to rescind
The deeds of the fallen heroes swelled in his mind, the pride of them combined,
Until the last cell of his body was alive, never would he cede, the glory of mankind.

The Mirror of Erised

They stood on the shores.
A gentle breeze stirred her locks.
The moon shrouded in the clouds gleamed on the waves.
Her face lit up.
Her hands were in his.
His eyes were in hers.
His gaze was serene, calm and jubilant.
He looked towards the skies and nodded his acknowledgement, his gratitude.
In her, he beheld the scale of his triumph, the pinnacle of beauty and virtue, beauty which was perfectly replicated inside her as much as it was on the outside.
In her, he beheld the light which he would never be able to outshine.
She was the priestess, the lady who read him as fluently as if she had been his author.
He smiled. He had finally made it. He had arrived home.

The Banner of Elendil

Some of my favorite quotes which also serve as my beacons, my guiding lights.

It doesn't say much. Only 'Howard Roark, Architect'. But it is like those mottoes men carved over the entrance of a castle and died for. It's a challenge in the face of something so vast so dark that all the pain on earth; and do you know how much suffering there is on earth? All pain comes from that thing you are going to to face. I don't know what it is, I don't know why it should be unleashed against you. I know only that it will be. And I know if you carry these words through to the end, it will be a victory, Howard. Not just for you, but for something that should win, that moves the world and never wins acknowledgement. It will vindicate so many who have fallen before you, who have suffered as you will suffer. May God bless you or whoever it is alone to see that best, the highest possible to human hearts. You are on your way to hell, Howard.
-- The Fountainhead [Book]

All that is gold, does not glitter.
All those who wander are not lost.
The old that is strong does not wither.
Deep roots are not touched by frost.
-- The Lord of the Rings - The Fellowship of the ring [Book]

If we wanted applause, we would have joined the circus - Argo (2013) [Film]

Why do we fall, Bruce? - Batman Begins (2005) [Film]

Andy Dufresene, who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. - The Shawshank Redemption (1994) [Film]

In Gondor, Ten Thousand years would not suffice - Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King [Book]

Lieutenant Dan had made his peace with God. - Forrest Gump (1994) [Film]

My act of loyalty to every creator who ever lived and was made to suffer by the force responsible for Cortlandt I dynamited. To every tortured hour of loneliness, denial, frustration and abuse he was made to spend and to the battles he won. To every creator whose name is known and to every creator who lived, struggled and perished unrecognized before he could achieve. To every creator who was destroyed in body or in spirit. To Henry Cameron. To Steven Mallory. To a Man who does not want to be named but who is sitting in the courtroom and knows that I am speaking of him. - The Fountainhead [Book]

A honest man is one who knows he can't consume more than he has produced. - Atlas Shrugged [Book]

Au Revoir Man Utd and Cantona, Come back when you have 18. - Banner at the Kop, Anfield. Liverpool. (1994)

The Rage Within

From the peaks of mirth, you've dropped down and turned back.
Within the abyss of hope, you've stayed there and held back.
You've been the driver of Growth, you've been the guardian of Time.
On the banks of Truth, you've developed into your prime.

Despite the placards of heat, you've slept there and burnt
In the bosom of arrogance you've grown and been churned.
Against the Ogres of Doom, you've grimaced and stared flat
Bleeding and dying, you've been there and done that.  

The Year of Reckoning

Raging heat. Drowning Cacophony. Relentless disappointments. Thorn after thorn and mountains in your path. These were however mundane.

The biggest shock came from within. When you demonstrated your fallibility, you demonstrated your weaknesses, you cowered and were at one time down on all your fours. You could have taken on any number of foes if you WANTED. That was the flaw, the question itself whether you wanted to take them on. It continued endlessly, you bled, bled and bled. You were up against a foe you knew so well, a foe who knew you so well. Equally matched tenacities, determination and resilience. For the first time you understood what it meant to fight yourself.

There has been an element of divinity within you. Eventually there came a time when bleeding did not matter, the temperatures did not matter, the torrent of sounds did not matter. You took the knife and cut off that gushing wound. You know what is meant by Collateral Damage. You accepted your loss and celebrated it. No complaints, no bad feelings, you lost fair and square, you are done. You with humility and thanks; accept your condemnation to solemnity and solitude. You've earned that with honour. You were so completely defeated by yourself.

There will be no going back. There are no regrets. There will be no compromise. There are other things to attend to. There are promises to keep. You know what you are capable of and no efforts will be spared to achieve it.

This has been your year of reckoning. 

Meet your doom with rage and fire
Pride in Death
Honour with Pride.

The Pyre of Reality

He was summoned. He was offered a choice. Reality or Delusion.

His choice was swift. He had heard about reality. He knew it to be true, liberating and pure. He demanded it. His prize was granted to him.

It started drizzling. He loved it.
The drizzle became a downpour. He enjoyed it evermore.
The downpour became a torrent. He held on, savouring every little bit.
The torrent became a storm. He barely held on.
The storm became a rage. He struggled, trying to make sense of it.
The rage turned into a malice. He choked. It was drowning him, owning him.

Reality - Truth, Purity, Liberation. Bitterest of the bitter, Sourest of the sour, Sharpest than sharp, darkest than dark, Shining like the brightest star, Lethal and downright deadly. It stung him, chewed him, gnawed him, snarled at him, sucked him. He'd asked for it. He got it. It had been served unadulterated. Yet it could not kill him, it would not kill him.

He then saw through it. He smiled. Reality was him. 

The Dungeons of Hope

The serpent had returned and vanished. The emptiness had returned.

He stood bare, without his skin. The mortal that he was, he was exposed to his consciousness. He could not bear it, withstand it. It gleamed, piercing the fabric of his soul forcing him to wonder at its fragility and yet its resilience.

He now floated in an ocean, an ocean of possibilities. All along he had thought he guided his fortunes. Now he had surrendered. He was the plank, made game of by the waves of possibilities as they pleased. He did not understand the game still. Why would not the waves cease? Why were they drifting clueless? What was the point of the game at all?

He was flummoxed. Did he need to resist them or let them be entertained by him. He did not feel to choose either of them, because he did not want to choose at all. His ego had melted, but then why was he flummoxed?

He floats till this day. He could float on for eternity. Was this his victory? Was this his defeat? Or was this something beyond the precincts of victory or defeat?

The Hypocrisy of the Angels

He was consumed by the emptiness yet somewhere he sensed a flaw. Something was uncharacteristic.
They appeared out of the sky, or perchance from his emptiness. Radiant, bright and spectacular.
The Angels were the mascots of the nothingness that made him. Or so they informed. He did not believe them.

He pondered about his fall from his pinnacle, they told him it was all decided back ago, ages into eternity. His fall was his initiation as they informed him.
He wondered about his journey ahead, they told him, he was not permitted to retrace his steps, the path had been chosen for him.
He asked them about truth, silence was their answer.
He inquired about the sanctity of wholeness, they kept silent.
He inquired the reason for the existence of emptiness and his own emptiness therein. They did not answer.
He asked them about love, He questioned them about hate, why were these needed, how were these enunciated. Why does light need darkness to define itself? Why must there be cruelty so that benevolence could be defined ? What sort of wizardry was this?

He asked them finally. Why was he chosen to walk on that path? Why was he chosen to walk at all? Why could he not give up everything, surrender everything? The Angels disappeared. The emptiness vanished with them.

He discovered his rhythm again. He rediscovered his inner peace. He was back to his arrogant, petulant and flamboyant self. Overcoming obstacles was not his only passion, ridiculing and humiliating them was his prize. There was never any bargain or compromise. He was back on the road, speeding towards glory. He would not be defeated by the storm again. He would not be defeated again by the serpent which came out of nowhere. Now that he had tasted both, He had enshrined their strengths. He felt not just powerful, He felt himself to be flawless, invincible and unstoppable.

He was mistaken. Thrice.

The Kiss of the Serpent

The sun was back in the sky. The gulls were back with their cries. The waves were genteel on the shores.
He looked up at the blaring skies. He drew back holding his breath.
The lakes of trust and dream stood behind him. He was parched, for all along he had drunk from the springs of faith and belief. Now he feared them, all along they had weakened him, deceived him.

Yet, he had to fulfill his parched soul, He drunk out of faith not from the lake, but the reservoir within him.
He was happy, this water made him strong, made him humble, made him sturdy. Or so he thought.
He set salvaging things after the storm. He brought back his arrogance, his flamboyance his firm sentinels, whom he would need to resurrect his aura.
Things started moving, he grew again.

It would be wrong to say he was caught unawares. He never knew what struck him, from where it struck him, when it struck him and why it struck him.
The sting of the serpent was definitive and swift. One gash sufficed. In the other instant the serpent was gone, as if composed from the empty space from whence it had appeared.
He looked into the waters. He stood along with his reflection. He could not suffer it. The sentinels were gone.

Clearly, there was a major void he had left unattended, or his sentinels had left unattended.
What may that be he pondered.
The sting had frozen him, decapitated him, smote him. He had nothing left to salvage now. But again he was so wrong.

He had been composed of the same emptiness as the serpent. He did not seek it, the emptiness grew within him. It took over him. The boy had disappeared. The Man surfaced. You can rob someone of his riches. How do you rob him off his emptiness. The thirst had vanished.

The sting subsided. The emptiness continued to grow.

He did not understand it. He probably does not understand it even now.

The Tempest

The storm tortured him.

He saw his morals and philosophies parting ways.
He was brought at crossroads. But all the roads seemed to culminate into cul de sacs
He was mad at himself, the world and all that he had so painstakingly imbibed.
He developed a ferocious hate, an anger, a rage, a vengeance against himself.
How could he have gone so wrong?
How did he fail to foresee the obvious?
Where had his clairvoyance vanished?
How could he have so easily conceded the game?

The worst part being, He was absolutely helpless. He couldn't punish himself, for the punishments were to be reflected back on the emotions of his dear ones, who believed in him the most.

He cursed life, He cursed the creator, He cursed himself.
He had joined forces with the storm, He inflicted blows on himself perhaps even more cruel than even the storm had envisaged, all under a veil for he didn't dare to lay bare his emotions.

The storm swept him on to abandoned shores. He was now devoid of emotions. Life was just a burden, a ritual which he desired to be ended naturally as soon as possible. It didn't hold anything for him.

He'd started acting. He had learnt to put a grim smile on his face.
He swallowed up his tears.
He took refuge in the loneliness of the night. It had not failed him before and wouldn't so now.

He feared happiness, He repulsed it with all the vigour he could muster. He knew he was stubbornly equipped enough to carry out such tasks to perfection.

He had lost purpose in life. He had lost interest.

But ....

Somewhere within him, things were bubbling. He was vulnerable to Love and Happiness.

He basks in this paradox, waiting hopelessly for something which he is sure will not arrive.

His Ways and Extremisms

He believed in complete honesty, (with himself and to a large extent with others). He was probably his harshest critic and tortured himself at the slightest mistake of his.
He chose to sideline his achievements, knowing that he had to make them a habit.
He was a very bad loser, He didn't take loss with a sporting spirit. He attributed his losses to his own mistakes and his victories to his adversaries'.
He grossly underestimated himself but always sought to magnify the strengths of his nemeses.
He was a very bad actor, One just had to look into his eyes to know his frailties. But then he always knew acting wasn't his forte.
He hated lethargy and more so ever people who promulgated lethargy. He always believed dereliction of duty in any form was a capital crime, treason.
He had a love and hate relationship with God. He never quite understood the word Faith. He deemed it to be the weakness of Men.
He never quite understood why he loved Solitude and Darkness. They had been his soul mates perchance through the passage of time.
His patience was ever tested, but he had learnt to live with it.
He had his Achilles Heel but so far he had it well concealed.

Then arrived the Storm, and it knew precisely where to strike
He was absolutely devastated, no chance at all.
He hung dearly with one thread which was slowly giving away, The Storm certainly knew how to make good sport out of him.

He hangs on till today ...........

The Scars

He loved mysteries, they eluded him.

He loved his work, it deserted him.
He had his views regarding the world.
He had his dreams.
He loved Virtue, He loved Grace, He loved Elegance, He loved Arrogance.
He loved things which posed a threat to him. He loved their bites.
He was all about recklessness, Nothing had ever stopped him.
He was also about Perfection, Nothing ever escaped him.
He loved his city.
He loved music.
He grappled with time, He tugged it to and fro.
He didn't have friends, He called them brothers.
He didn't call 'Them' Teachers, He respected 'Them' as Gurus.
He had his weaknesses, He trusted too much.
He never bargained, He never bantered, He never argued.
He had his principles, they evaded him.
He hated the word 'no'
He didn't have enemies.
He adored silence, just like silence adores a morgue.
He respected money, but it still came behind work.
He was never bound by conventions, but never won against his emotions.
He had his circle of influence, He didn't harbor prejudice.

He went into the storm full throttle

He is lost, mutilated and Dead.

But . . .