You are invisible, no one sees or Knows you.
Your frail body is an irritating glitch on the scenery: your dark, leathered face is just another copy of the ubiquitously ugly mien on the teeming nobodies.
Your shabby clothes hang loosely on your shoulders, they were supposed to give you some character, add color to your drabness and fill in where your bowed figure has left vacant. They don’t, however.
Instead, they hide any redeeming features you may posesss , they swallow you in a blaze of hideousness, they make you shame itself.
And you resist, you want more. You want better.
You wrest precious milk from the breast of knowledge and snatch meagre successes from the clutches of personal failure.
You get on the upwards slope, Hope begins to dawn.
Then comes misery, holding a gift of loss.
Those who have feasted at the table of anonymity with you, they are removed by Death’s whims
The voice that told you, “You will make it, just keep trying” is silenced
The Hands that held yours, when the world has left you all but behind, is Cut off
Even the heart, that heart which is the only one with a drop of belief in you, Is stopped,
And that support on which you would lean, when all that remained was to fall, fold up and die – is uprooted.
You are loneliness. You are Grief. You become Shame.
You will not resist anymore; you will spite now. You go to the merchants of hate, the peddlers of destruction. You Vow their faith, Bow their bows and learn their skills – It is salvation, you whisper to yourself. You let that stout heart of yours wither away, and its now minuscle space, you fill with rage and evil.
Then one by one, your comrades go on to their rewards, and your turn comes. You smile, your victory is near. You know how to prepare for the ocassion, you know it too well infact. You wear a clothe of fire and blood, then mask it with your shabby wear.
You know no one will see you as you slip in through the back door, and if they see you, they will, in derision, ignore you
“Bloody Haji.” They might spit out.
You snake in through the serving mass, That kow-towing underclass –
You sneer at those being served: glittering them, Entitled they, you say –
You forget the last part:
You find your sweet spot, you find your Moment: and then with all the strength in you, you scream
They are frightened, they turn; wine glasses dropping, eyes widening, voices screaming. And you are happy.
You tell them you are at the only adequate entrance-exit door, so they can as well loose any hope of escape. You remove your camouflage of shabby – they see the ticking death you have strapped on. You tell them of the pressure trigger in your hands, and that if they cut you down, it will be released and they will all die.
Then you blaspheme: You say Allah is with you, you say this is his battle and you are a soldier headed for paradise.
But are you? For Allah is not in your business; Allah withdrew his stake when you laid your soul out at the altar of murder and swore an allegiance to malicious hate.
Still, you tell them to relax, knowing that makes them more frightened.
You drone on and on about some never-happened slight on The Prophet’s faith.
Till you realize that the whole world has converged on you. The Army and Police are just outside the door to stop you; the press is here to see this scene spectacular.
And then you say to your hard-lucked audience, chuckling:
“Some men leave this world with a whimper. But me, I will leave it with a loud, big bang!”
And you let go of the pressure switch…
And Nothing happens!!
And again, you become Shame…