Take in a perspective- think of puppets, and now place yourself in place of the stringed creatures and dare to dream.
You are the despondency and the exuberance, the beaten and the won; you are what the world wants you to be and who you, yourself, expect to be- you are in Pandora’s Box. Time is of the essence and day, an illusion. Hour is merely a term used to estimate the levels of endurance; the capacity to withhold the lies and listen to mindless jabber. Through the cage of time and walls of the Box, you see something wondrous, not sure what it might be, you reach out and just as it is in reach; the strings choke you back to the stage.
To live in a totalitarian society is akin to stepping into a battlefield echoing songs of the blood shed and hymns of swords. Battles are not won. They never are. They are chaotic, mad and the height of idiocy- with the loser, taking with him the lifeless bodies and the winner, the guilt of it all. But what happens if a soldier falls in love?
The eight second journey to Venus epitomizes his reason for his being. It makes him want to be a better man, a free man; it makes him want to break away and the confrontation baffles him and senses advice him to deny it all, such strong is the emotion. But to let it go seems insane and yet, here he stands: his sword high in the air, bewildered gaze and a heart defying all, which once seemed sane.
It’s all, an illusion- the cruel fate’s ploy. With so infinitesimal the moment and so vague an emotion, this seems so surreal but isn’t this what they, those spectators with a will and freedom so craved, always talk about? This moment in a million; is this what they call life?