Vida Perra

Its a little wobbly.

---

Us, we love dogs. They are what we ever want to be but scarcely are: loyal. Their barks, can they ever be anything but inane gibberish that all of us hear but neither understand nor care to interpret? Of course, we love them. We don't treat them as dogs do we?. Never. We care for them. Some even feed them more than what themselves would consume.

Them, do they ever even listen to what we go on about? Do they understand what we tell them when we hold them, raise them so that their eyes could meet ours, pat their heads and show our affection in other ways we are wont to? Do they ever realise that some of us are paid to walk them over cobbled pavements and manicured greens?

---

Life is a bitch.

---

O thy ruler,

when you jumped off your steed after the war,

to try and make sense of what you saw,

and were benumbed by the pile of mortal remnants that battles spew,

the dismembered limbs, the rusted guts, the impaled hearts,

the invisible sweat and tears of those who were just as human as you,

for a fleeting moment or two,

were you tempted to lie there,

to become what lies ever want to be,

but never are:

to be true?

---

Us and Them

Why are we mortals obsessed with those who don props and slip out of our three dimensional existence into the bi-dimensional illusion projected onto a faded white screen? Is it the illusion itself? The illusion that whatever happens, they will remain unviolated by our thoughts, unflattered by our compliments, unhurt by our criticism, never undone by our deconstruction of their myth, untouched by our interpretations of their actions, unviolated by the fantasy of our dreams? That they will remain what they are, their fates never hinged to our actions, their destiny never effected by our throw of the dice. Is this how Gods feel when they look upon us from the skies above or observe us from the nether below? Us, a bunch of people going about their jobs, with a few clamouring for Their attention once every while and calling Their names when our time at the shift is over; Their guidance, does it ever percolate onto our minds, does it ever act as the causative for our actions? Or is their control as illusory as ours is when we seat ourselves in a dark acoustically well equipped room full of people who are as strange to us as we are to them, except for the odd known face or two, on seeing whom our hand raises itself for a perfunctory wave, or our face twists itself into a shallow smile? Who are we? Who are they? Who are these people walking around in front of us, stuck and struggling to realise the depth of their lives and living through this two dimensional medium and politely walking away at the end of it all? Who are they? Are they us? Are They us? Are we Them?