In Flames

The wooden door banged against the cold, ceramic tiles as he rushed into the bathroom. The tap gushed with icy cold water as he splashed it onto his face. His shoulders heaved as he panted, trying to catch his breath.

He opened the mirrored shelf above the basin and grabbed at the tiny yellow glass bottle. It squeaked as he opened it and emptied it off the last two tablets. He swallowed them. As he finally returned to normal, he looked at himself in the mirror.

He saw his grey eyes, now red. He noticed his wrinkles, a new addition to his face. He scrutinized each pore on his face, and the size of his hooked nose.

He looked so old. A good ten years more than his present thirty-five. He stood there for another ten minutes, with a blank expression on his face. And then he walked out.

He undressed to go to bed. He wouldn’t be excused from work tomorrow. He switched off his lights, and lay down on his hard bed, the blanket only just protecting him from the harsh cold of winter.  He couldn’t sleep. It should’ve been easy for him, considering how tired he was. Physically and mentally. But he lay there, motionless, eyes wide open, staring at the moon rays filtering gently through the blinds.

He remembered a night somewhat like this one, thirty years ago. He’d been crying, a little boy who had just been bullied by a neighbor. He was always a lonely kid. He never made any friends. His parents thought he was just shy, and that he would get over that phase.

But he wasn’t shy. He was just…just a ‘freak’. Like the other kids called him. They hated him, the weird boy who liked squishing insects and setting them on fire. They were afraid of him. But they dared not tell their parents. They thought that maybe he would harm them if they did.

And so he was left all alone in the garden, stared at by the kids, whispering little secrets to each other. And so he went back to his little playthings, the insects.

He found more and more ways to play with them, until his parents discovered their kid’s secret fetish, after he started safekeeping the mutilated bodies of the tiny bugs he’d worked on. He was eight then.

They tried every possible way to get him out of his fancy, for they didn’t want to be known as bad parents. They were scared that the church would turn against them, and that they won’t have any friends if anyone found out.

So they took him to a psychologist, who tried making perfect sense to an eight year old who knew nothing apart from school and insects. They tried grounding him, confiscating his insect collection, and spraying pesticide all over the house and the garden, but he always found his playmates.

It was when the insect fetish started turning towards kittens that his parents decided to take drastic steps. Out of desperation, his father began hitting him. It started off with a slap on the cheek that turned his face purple for days. It went on to belt whips, bleeding lips and broken teeth.  And then to broken limbs.

He watched the cold, intent look in his mother’s eyes as his father trashed him everyday, waiting for her to say something. It was later that he realized that it was their only solution to a normal social life.

Finally, after his thirteenth birthday, he gradually curbed his inner desires, only out of fear of dying at his father’s bare hands. He gave up every natural instinct and tried to live like a normal human being.

At fifteen, he was diagnosed with clinical depression. He had been taking those pills from yellow glass bottles for twenty years now.

He was exhausted.

Not that it ever helped much. He still had panic attacks, fits of rage and breathlessness. The pills only helped calm those down, but they never stopped.  Sometimes it felt like it was the pills that actually kept him in a depressed state, waiting for something to lean on.

His parents were long gone.

He had forgotten about killing insects. He knew he’d never go back to that.

So he decided that tonight’s pills would be his last. He would never depend on them again. He would be happy. He got out of bed, a new enthusiasm filling him. He decided to celebrate the start of a new life. And he knew exactly how to.

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. Then he got dressed and went down to his basement. He walked past twenty burlap sacks till he found a huge one marked ‘X’. He dragged it upstairs and out of his house.

Light snow was falling as he opened it. He noticed the glittering elegance of white that filled his garden, and the streets. He smiled at the irony of blue liquid on the shimmering white snow at his feet.

And with the strike of a match, he laughed openly, loudly and uncontrollably for the first time in his life, as the bodies of his parents went up in smoke, and down in flames.

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Why are we imprisoned by society's idea of beauty? Why do we conform to others' whims as to how someone should look? Why do we deck ourselves up with things that hold no meaning?

Why do we hold on so tight to frills and embellishments, forcing ourselves to believe that we're nothing without them, when all they do is hide who we really are?

Or was that the motive in the first place?

Pink Floyd Blues (Part 2)

"What did you dream? It's alright, we told you what to dream."

 (Welcome to the machine, Pink Floyd)

We sit still in a puddle of complacency, and wait to be taught how to live. And they are only too happy to teach us, direct us, and to control us. And soon we'll all become clones of each other. Eating, sleeping, fucking, existing like we were told to. And soon, there will be nothing left to believe in. No dreams, no love, no peace.

Welcome, they'll say then. Welcome to the machine.

(Illustration - pen, acrylic colours, scotch brite)

Pink Floyd Blues (Part 1)

I couldn't touch. I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe.

But I could hear it. And I could feel it.

And so I sang along.

(Illustration - colour pencils, poster paint, acrylic paint and pen)

Dark Eyes (Pen)

"I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade into my own parade. Cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it."

Thank you, Bob Dylan. You're my Tambourine Man. :)

Image reference:

That's a poster for the movie, I'm not there. It's amazing, btw. Go watch it when you can. :)

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So this is my second story. It's a bit long, so you'll have to be patient.  :)

Alex 
Pitch dark. That’s the only thing I was aware of. I heard voices that seemed far, far away. Or in the back of my head. I didn’t know which one it was for sure.
But they were screaming. Panicking. Hollering. Crying.
The only thing I remember was a flash of bright light, and a loud horn. If it was that.

George 
Black. Blinding light. Deafening sound. Black. Black. Black.

Alex 
I thought I was dead. But the very next moment, I opened my eyes, bursting that bubble. Yeah, it was a bubble. Death would have been easier.
Or I’d like to think so.
Either way, the pain was unbearable. I tried to cry out, but I didn’t hear my voice. I needed something to numb it down, but I didn’t know what.
It was all blurry. But my mind worked enough to tell me that the white and pale blue I saw around me was the interior of the hospital on Willow Street. The world around me was trembling in an earthquake that no one else seemed to notice.
The blurring was more distorted than ever, and suddenly everything went black again.
What the FUCK is going on??
I opened my eyes with a start. This time, it was all still. But every part of me was aching. The medicinal smell almost camouflaged that of my blood. I noticed I was in the hospital gown. On the floor, I saw the blood stained boots I wore earlier that day. George’s boots. Where was he? The last time I remember seeing him was in the car, on the way to the game.
The car. Something must’ve happened then.
I looked around to see if he was lying on the bed next to mine, but I was all alone in the room.
Oh shit. “GEORGE!!!!!”
No reply.
“George, where are you?” “Are you okay?”
“GEORGE!!!!”
Through the corner of my eyes, I saw someone rush into the room. Someone in white. I was losing sight again.
A stab of piercing pain in my arm and I was lost. 

George 
Where am I?
The darkness was so overpowering that my eyes took almost a few minutes to adjust to it. And even so, it was so dark that I couldn’t see much.
The bed was soft. And the blanket, warm.
I tried getting up to look around, but my body didn’t seem to respond.
It felt like a huge anchor was tied to each limb and weighed me down to the point of not being able to even turn in the bed, let alone getting up to leave it.
I tried moving just my right hand, to see if there was anything around that would tell me where I was.
After the first try, I knew that a casual effort wouldn’t work. I tried concentrating only on moving the hand. I put in every ounce of energy my body allowed me to. It still didn’t work.
The fourth time, my arm responded, though I wished the very next moment that it hadn’t.
The searing pain shot through the nerves at my wrist and I could almost feel it moving from one neuron to another, right to my shoulder and then my neck, the electric nerve signal pounding in every inch of the path it just travelled.
I screamed loudly as an impulse and took my arm back to where it was when I woke up. Once I did, I realized that screaming like that was the stupidest thing I could’ve done. I could be anywhere. Kidnapped and drugged, in a serial killer’s house. Or being set up for something I didn’t do.
I heard someone walk into the room. My brain asked me to keep still and pretend I was sleeping.
The figure walked upto me slowly, and I was thinking of the best possible escape from this.
But, to my surprise, the figure gently came and put a palm to my head. The soft hand was comforting. She switched on the small night lamp on the table next to me.
It became clear to me then. Her white uniform was glowing in the soft light. The pale blue curtains hung low against the window, and the table next to me had a clean jug of water, a glass, and a stack of pills.
She poured me some of the water and handed me a small, yellow pill.
I looked at her, my confusion finally clearing up. She smiled. I took the pill I assumed to be a pain killer. I was drifting back and the last thing I saw was her pretty, kind eyes.

Alex 
It was the thirst that woke me up. It was already mid-morning. I beckoned to the nurse. She helped me sit up, poured some water in a glass and held it to my lips as I sipped. 

“Where’s George?” I asked her. “Where is he?”
The nurse looked at me, confused.
“Uhm. We didn’t really inform any of your relatives. We didn’t find any contacts.”
“No. Where is he? Where did you keep him?”
“Yes, sir. If you would give us his phone number, we can call him.”
“No! He was with me. In the car. He was with me. Where is he?”
“Sir?”
“Is he dead? Answer me, woman!! Did he die in the crash?”
“Sir, you survived that crash.”
“I know I did, you fool. Where’s George? He was with me.
We were on our way to the game!”
“Sir, you’re mistaken. There was no one else with you at the scene of the accident. You were the only one in your car!”
“What? That’s not possible! I’m telling you he was with me!!”
“Sir, I think you’re still in shock. You should get some rest.”
That’s it. I won’t take anymore of this. I need to get up and find George myself. So I tried moving my limbs, trying to ignore the searing pain in every muscle. But before I could actually make any progress, the doctor walked in. And in spite of all my will power, he gave me a shot, and in a matter of seconds, I was limp.

George 
It was late afternoon when I woke up. The sky was an amalgamation of reds, oranges and yellows. I felt at peace, for some reason. I laughed, amused at myself.
Twenty years since I lost peace, and I find it in a hospital, for no apparent reason. 

She walked into the room, holding a notepad.
I saw those eyes again. But they were a little different this time. They were slightly afraid. I assumed that she must’ve seen something gruesome in the course of her duty.
She looked at me, a little shocked to see I was awake. I smiled.
She was taken aback by that. Poor thing, I thought. She probably met only those mean, troublesome patients that crib all day.
But she smiled back.
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“You should probably eat something.”
“Maybe.”
She left to return with a bowl of soup on a tray. I helped myself to it. The warm soup felt good against my sore throat.
I looked outside the window, the sun’s rays lighting up the room.
It was baffling how life unfolds itself and arrives at a point where you can’t do anything but laugh at yourself for being a fool, for planning every moment of it, not realizing that your plans don’t make any difference. Because no matter how hard you try, you cannot escape the plan it has for you.
I was orphaned at 5. My parents died in a fire that charred our cottage to ashes. I was a single child. And in all my life, my parents had never mentioned any relatives.We lived in the beautiful meadows of Turalsa. It was a long walk from school, but I loved it. We had a huge farm where we grew vegetables and fruits. We also had a poultry farm, and a beautiful stream, which was just a few minutes away.
Mom was a brilliant cook. I remember those warm, delicious cookies she baked. She loved feeding us, dad and me. She was always paranoid about my health. I used to get a lot of blackouts. She had even asked my teacher at school to take ‘good care’ of me. It was only when I was back in the meadows that she’d breathe easy.
“The town is a wicked place, son.”, she used to say. “They won’t treat you well. They will abuse you. And they will trample you. Don’t ever trust them.”
She was right. I realized later though. Much later.
Dad was the most jovial guy I’d known. He taught me to fish, to catch hens, to climb trees, and all the things a kid needed to learn. He read me my bedtime story. He was my hero.
Even after all these years, I wish I could be like him.
I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t live anywhere near the school, like the others did. It took me an hour and a half to walk there.
It’s not like we didn’t have neighbours. But all of them lived at least half an hour away.
“That is exactly the idea. We all live so far away from each other because we love the open space, but we still have a place to go to, and people to be familiar with.” Mom tried to explain the isolation when I asked.
I don’t remember much of the day they died.
One moment I was having lunch, and the next, I was outside the house, screaming loudly.
I saw my house collapsing, the huge orange flames engulfing whatever was left of it.
I stood rooted to the ground, my legs not ready to step ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, the firemen arrived. After they extinguished it, they turned to me, and told me calmly that my parents were no more. What happened after that was unclear, but I remember being carried by someone.Next thing I knew, I was in a police station. 

A few days later, I was sent to a foster home. A few weeks later, another one. And then another. Apparently they couldn’t handle a kid who was in so much trauma.

No one explained why I was beaten repeatedly by most of them though. 

After that, I stopped trusting anyone but myself. I sketched out my life. I’d work and collect enough cash, and return to Turalsa. And I never got around to talking to people or making friends. I never felt anyone could understand me. Clearly, I was right.
Until this moment. Until today.
I know I didn’t know anything about this lady, but I saw a kindness in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since my father.
I won’t call it love. I’m not sure I even believe in it.
But I know there was something. Something meaningful. Something deep.
I closed my eyes and took a long breath.

Alex
I have to get out of here. The place was suffocating me in my head. And outside it. And I didn’t want to stay in a place where people to sedated me for asking about my own brother. ‘In shock’ the nurse said. In shock, my foot. They thought I was crazy. But they didn’t know anything.
I was sure that George was with me. I was talking to him!
I prayed that he wasn’t in trouble. He wasn’t that strong. He was a shy guy. Always had been. Ever since mom and dad died, he hardly spoke to anyone.
I think it was the way they died that shook him, rather than the fact that they did.
My parents hated my twin. Even more than they hated me. They would take me to an institution, as a kid. I was fucking electrocuted when I was 3. They thought they could curb my anger that way. Obviously, that didn’t work out. George was locked up in the attic. I was too, sometimes, when I got uncontrollably mad for what they were doing to me.
Then back at home, they acted like the most loving parents ever. Baking me cookies, going fishing, acting like everything was okay. Anyone else would think they were the nicest parents one could ask for. They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know what George and me were going through.I was electrocuted four excruciating times before they realized it wouldn’t work.
That it only infuriated me further. That I would never forgive them.
George was the only person who accepted me for what I am. He doesn’t mind the bitterness. Those outbursts of malign anger. He just listens to me wanting to go stab someone, instead of judging me.
Not that I ever stabbed anyone. I just have a fiery temper.

Alex
After the first time I asked for George, I decided not to again.
I realized that another tantrum in front of the doctors would just make them think I’m crazy. I would go look for him myself. That is the only way I could find him. After that, I counted every minute to this one.
The doctor came up to me and told me that I have been discharged.
I wore my clothes. I put on the boots. George’s boots.
Then I wrote the hospital a check and left.
First stop. Home.
If George wasn’t there, he must have left a hint. If he had disappeared at his own free will, that is.
I checked my wallet. The notes were arranged neatly, in increasing order. George’s doing. My ID was kept in a different compartment.
I picked it up.
‘Alex Kent’ it said, in the typical, typewritten letters.
I would sometimes carry George’s ID with me. I didn’t have it today. 

I opened the door to our flat. 

No George.
My head started spinning. I struggled as I tried to find my way inside, to my room. I had hardly reached my bed, when it all went black again.

George 
Holy shit!! What on earth just happened? The last thing I remember was falling off to sleep in the hospital. And now I’m waking up at home! It must’ve been one of those damned blackouts again.
I got myself out of bed and made some coffee.
I was pacing up and down the room, trying to remember what happened.Then something glinted. I turned to look at the huge mirror in my room, reflecting the few rays of the sun that made their way through the breezing curtains.
I walked to it, slowly, my eyes fixed upon my own reflection. I kept walking till I was within an inch of myself.
My mind was drawing such a huge blank that I’d lost control over my own thoughts and muscles. I saw myself lift a hand, right or left, I couldn’t figure out.
I felt my fingertips on the cool glass, my dark green eyes not leaving my own. I was faintly aware of a headache growing. But I was too busy to do anything about it. So it kept growing. And growing. Suddenly there was a flash of light and…..

Alex 

….I opened my eyes. I was standing so close to the mirror that I almost jumped at the sight of myself. God, I get so weird sometimes.
I walked to the bed, and started rummaging the drawer to see if George had left anything, even a note, or some proof that he was going to be in trouble.
I looked in his wardrobe, threw out his clothes. Nothing.
Then I went to a shelf with his files and stuff from work. Nothing again.
Damn it. 

I saw a stack of books on the table. Those were his favourite ones. Bloody hell, how did all this happen? I picked up the whole stack and flung them to the wall. I saw them fly, each on of them.
Then, as one of them hit the wall, a photograph fell out of it. I bent to pick it up and studied it. It was the charred remains of my parents’ house. 

The house that gave us both so much grief. The goddamned house. And its occupants.
And the day it all ended. The day I ended all of it. The day I couldn’t take their bullshit anymore. 

The day I swore that I’d protect George from his parents who refuse to accept his existence. The day I saved my brother’s life. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw George walk into the room.
He smiled and hugged me.
As I said, I have a fiery temper.

But Anna smiled.

This is my first successful and complete attempt at writing a story, so here goes!

I see them in a flock. They are racing towards me. Angry, cackling noises echo in my ears. I run as fast as I can, but they catch up anyway. Now the squawking is interrupted by the loud flapping of wings. I cry for help as they surround me, and they start pecking their huge, sharp beaks at me, and.....

... and I wake up. Cold sweat drenched the neck of my t-shirt. I sit up, breathing heavily. I wait for it to become even, and I get up and get myself a glass of cold water. It manages to calm me down more than the voice in my head that keeps saying "It's not your fault." I walk back to my bed and cradle into the blissful arms of sleep.

I woke up to the ringing of my alarm clock. Still sleepy, I brushed my teeth and took a bath before I walked down to the kitchen for breakfast. Somewhere around my sixth spoon of cereal, I remembered my dream. It had been a while since the last time, but last night, it was slightly different. It felt more...real.

I shrugged it off, concluding that recurring dreams are bound to be a little different once in a while. Besides, today was a new beginning!!

One of the eleven 'new beginnings' I've had all my life.

That's what my dad calls them. His transfers. To ease the pain of separation from friends and things I'm attached to. Personally, I think he's just trying to confuse himself. It never made too much of a difference to me. I never really had any friends. A new school with new people didn't hold too much meaning for me.

I finished my breakfast, grabbed my bag, and left my house.

It seemed like a pleasant day, until the birds started chirping. I hate that sound. I know that people find it beautiful and soothing, but I can't stand it. It brings back too many memories. Ones I don't want to recall.

It was a beautiful summer day. The kind that makes you want to blow bubbles and drink lemonade. I remember being cheerful and bubbly back then, but that part of me was killed that day. My sixth birthday.

My parents had taken me out to a fun-fair. I remember being enchanted by the colours and energy of that place. I ran to every stall, played every game, sat on every ride. And the ice cream was the best I'd ever tasted.

I was busy absorbing the brilliance around me when i noticed a cage of around a dozen birds. I'd always hated cages. I felt a cold tingle in my back when i saw a bird trapped in any of them.

I looked at my mother, who was busy paying the guy at the cotton candy stall. I seized the opportunity and walked to the cage, wondering how i could help them. As fate would have it, the person who should have locked the cage had forgotten to do so, leaving only a bolt to secure the door. I looked around to see if anyone was looking, and slowly opened the door of the cage.

That was when it began.

The pretty, graceful birds I'd seen turned into ghastly, horrendous birds of prey. They fought to leave the cage, and flew around the entire are, filling the air with their triumphant, haunting screams, attacking everyone they saw. The commotion they caused was unbearable. I don't know how I got lucky, if you can call it that, but I wasn't hurt the least bit. Physically. A lot of other people were. I front of my eyes.

My parents found me sitting and sobbing on the same spot where I stood to open the cage. They carried me to the car, and on the way all I could see was blood. I wasn't blamed. But the guy who forgot to lock the cage was.

After that day, I never made a fuss of my birthday. I also stopped talking to a point that scared my parents. Therapy and counseling made me talk, but only to a bare minimum.

It was also when those dreams started.

I never forgave myself.

The new school was the same as all of my old ones. A group of socially awkward people putting up masks of perfection, trying to find a place in this cruel world.

My fourth week into the new cultural jungle, I had managed to go relatively unnoticed. I bought my lunch and sat down at an unoccupied table. I opened my novel where I'd left it last night.

"Is this seat taken?", said a soft, low voice. I looked up to see a girl who would have been really pretty, except for those huge, long scratches across her face.

In four weeks, I'm sure I'd never noticed her, for a face so scarred is not easy to forget.

I didn't realize I'd been staring at her till her sincere gaze softened into a hurt, insulted one. "Never mind" she said and walked away before I could stop her.

I had't really spoken to anyone here and I didn't want to either, but I definitely didn't want to hurt someone I'd never met before.

So the next day, I tried looking for her. I did this for two days, but she didn't show up. I guessed I might have been dreaming or something, because she seemed to have never existed.

But on the third day, as I scanned the cafeteria for a seat, I saw her, sitting alone, gaze down on her plate. I walked up to her. She didn't look up. I kept my plate on the table and sat down. She looked up. I smiled. She gave a weary, tired, one sided smile. I decided it was time to apologize. "Hey, listen, I'm really sorry about the other day. I didn't mean to offend you."

She seemed to lighten up, or maybe I imagined that. But she said, "Its okay, I guess. I should be used to it by now."

Then there was an awkward silence. We both waited for the other to start talking.

I finally decided to make an exception. "I'm Mae."

"Anna", she said, and smiled. "Are you new here?"

"Yeah, I just moved here last month. You're new too, right?"

Just then I saw this look in her eyes. It was that of being completely alone even in the midst of a crowd. I knew that look well. Too well.

But she laughed. "This is my third year here. I just try to stay out of the spotlight."

Silence again.

And then, out of nowhere, it started again. It probably sounded like the playful chirping of two birds to anyone else, but to me it was like a blood curdling scream of someone falling off a cliff.

I closed my eyes, praying it would go away, not wanting to scare off yet another person.

When I opened them, she was simply looking at me. I decided to come clean. "I'm sorry, i know it's weird, but I hate the sound of birds."

She looked at me for around ten seconds, and started laughing. I looked at her, nonplussed. "Wow, finally, someone else!" She said. And the both of us laughed for a long time.

That one incident was the foundation of our friendship. We spoke about it a lot, and both of us admitted that we wouldn't have said another word if those otherwise formidable birds hadn't intervened.

In the following years, Anna and me became the best of friends. She helped me through times I couldn't have stood through without her. And in return, I was there for her.

One day, it all came pouring out. My sixth birthday, the fun fair mishap.

When I finished talking, she was looking at me with so much shock that I though she would never speak to me again.

But Anna smiled.

She smiled and said, "It's not your fault." And she hugged me.

The only thing that had remained unsaid so far was the story of Anna's scars. I'd asked her about it a few times, but she always responded with a shrug and "Oh, nothing, It was an accident."

After a few times, I decided not to push her. She probably needed time. But the question never left my mind.

School ended, so did college, but Anna never failed to make my smile.

When we were twenty-seven, Anna was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Over the next year, she grew weaker, and her scars, more prominent. Seeing my best friend like this was tougher than I'd imagined.

Last week, the doctor told me that she had a kidney failure and that her heart was far too weak. She could die any moment. Everyday started with the question, "Is this the last one?"

I open my eyes. I see the drab blue of the hospital wing. I go get myself some coffee, and when I return, Anna is up. She cracks a few lame jokes to cheer me up, but fails.

I don't know what else to do. We both know that it's close to being over.

So I gather up the courage to ask her the only secret that was untold in our years together.

"Anna, how DID you get those scars?"

She stops mid-sentence and looks at me. She knows from the look on my face that I wanted the truth.

She sighs and closes her eyes.

"I was at a fun fair, when a flock of birds....

The Game

How did we get here? Where did all this animosity come from? When did we change from creatures of high intellect and abilities to just monsters who are just looking for an excuse to pounce on each other?

I try to close my eyes and look for reasons but all i can see is this flash of cold hatred rushing from one side of my head to another.

Why do we try to take over? Why do we need a stamp on everything in our vicinity to tell the rest of the world about our ownership? Heck, why do we need to prove it to ourselves?

Politics. Not country level. Politics in a small community, a group of people. A society, a college, or just a group of friends. Why did we find it necessary to complicate the simplest of things like that?

Was it the need to complicate it or was it just to make things more interesting?

And was it worth it?

What was the point of adding ingredients of contrast into a perfect dish?

Did you enjoy it? Will you enjoy it five years later when you have so much to worry about that today will be completely forgotten?

When we were told that life's a game, why did we think that the winner always gets to rule the world? Or a tiny piece of it? And why was this the ONE game that was always about winning when all we did everyday was tell everyone else that it wasn't? Or was that part of the game too, eliminating competition?

And who made the rules? Were they always there, passed down from generation to generation like a precious heirloom? Or did we just misunderstand it when they said 'live life by your own rules'? And were these rules meant solely for us or did we just assume that our rules must fit everyone else's lives? Or worse, that everyone else must try and alter their lives to fit our rules?

Can't we live a perfectly meaningful life without making such a fuss out of everything?

The questions have always been out there, but no one's really trying to find an answer. We're all just too busy playing.

Incarceration

Hey everyone! This is a short film made by my friend 'Moo' and me. It's a second movie for the both of us, but a first fictional one. It's set to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Have fun, and don't hold back on criticism!

Peace and love!! :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuDMcIEBYY0