prologue continued....

Most common people who tend to consider themselves normal because they follow the norms of society and find it easy to relate to other people around them, call dreamers as weak, strange weird and other one word and two word names that do not even begin to define the sort of people we really are. All this name-calling does not help our relation ship at all and only causes the rift between the drones, and us only to widen to an extent that it may never be bridged. At least not in our lifetime, mainly because people of our breed tend not to live very long lives, our average life span not withstanding we do try to eliminate the pain in our lives at the source of it, by foolishly eliminating life itself.
Contrary to what I am, I have tried to remain sober and true to life in the past ten minutes of story telling, but nothing that I say is a promise that the status quo would be maintained for any long period of time. However due to my new found reason to live, I can try to assure you that I will not take you for the ride of your life. This is not an original story, nothing man made in this world is original, and it cannot be, period. Why? Is a different issue for a different time and a different chapter, I cannot really promise that it will be pondered on either, maybe if I remember it, I will give forth my opinion on human beings and their delusions about being original.
This is a story of tendrils of smoke, black lungs, more pin pricks in human flesh than a pincushion, your boss’s voodoo doll that you have hidden under your bed, and other stuff related to the downside of having more than your share of fun in one lifetime, not that you would remember anything the next morning.
Please bear with me as I iron out a few minor details, wrinkles in the bed sheet so to speak. You would know how it feels when you look at a painting that has been put up but has this ever so slight tilt to the right; you feel the need to put it right. If you cannot reach that painting, or it is in the dinning room of some one you have gone visiting, then through out your visit you find yourself looking up at the tilted picture as if it is a ritual until you can leave the place and embrace sanity away from the painting’s hung disposition.
Please remember that what ever follows has happened before, it is happening now somewhere in this smaller than it was once world and it will happen again unless human kind, either vanishes from the face of the earth in the brightest moment of the rock’s history, or if we manage to achieve the much dreamed about utopia. Only the vanishing part seems any likely and would also be very nice for the future of this planet and all chicken on it as well.



CHAPTER 1

“She is so beautiful” he moaned ever so balefully looking at me as if to gain some sympathy, or maybe he just looked as if he could do with some sympathy, whatever the confusion his condition though expected was not good at all. He lay sprawled on the leather-upholstered couch, one leg dangling so that his toe almost touched the Iranian rug, and the other foot; completing his designated pair, rested on a small stool. Light from the sinking sun filtered through the dirty window illuminating his face a bit, if not his brain.
It was pretty obvious that he was smitten with the girl he was talking about; at least it was a girl and not a car. Last time he came down like this with all his articulations drowning in his eternal undying love for HER, it turned out it was a classic car and he couldn’t get HER out of his mind for a minute.
I felt cruel, considering his predicament was real and as serious as any other one sided love affair but it did not have much effect on me. Maybe because I had never been in his shoes, dainty as they were I tend to step lightly where daintiness is at hand. When it came to my thoughts about my friends and their continuous flirtations with love I was a nobody, a pure dyed in the wool outsider, who knew no bench mark to define or categorize the extent of seriousness in people’s emotions.
I merely looked at him as if he were an object in a museum, cold and beautiful, something you are not allowed to touch either. But despite all the rules and laws in the world, there are people who touch stuff in the museum and then there are people who steal them for which touching is a prerequisite. All of this happens for their vested interests, could be monetary or maybe touching the artifact just because it is forbidden, takes them to a high that nothing else in this world can. It can also be the selfish, obsessive and possessive nature of human beings, to capture and enslave something that you cherish, so that no one other than you can ever get near it see it taste it or breath it. Sometimes, it is just good to touch it, to know that it is there, that it exists; some things and some people are so beautiful, that you cannot imagine their existence until you have actually touched them.
It is not necessary to touch them physically, an emotional connection, even a disagreement strong or weak can both lead to a co-existence of two different people, both feeding off each other’s presence, life blood without even knowing that the other person ever existed. Controversial statements but still very possible, you know another person is there, ever present, his or her existence felt in every other thing that you do or don’t but you never know who you do it for or how................(continued...)