Amazing how the subconscious can become a reliable map. Two Saturdays past, while enjoying my aimless drive around the metropolis in the dead of night, I came upon this old alley and felt the sudden nervous twitch in my gut. A decade has passed yet that street, where the all too familiar dismal looking house totters, remains to infect hostility and everything still looks as drab as if to mock at the supposed intrinsic invincibility of time and constancy of change. Sprawled like a massive horizontal triangle, the crude architecture of the house personifies the sinister vibe bolstered by the ungodly hour and the bare torsos of the istambays (street-side idlers).
The inability of the eyes to recognize a corporeal bit of the dreaded past, the subconscious compensates with its blow-by-blow exhumation of a presumably dead former self. The carcass of my former self awakens revealing the intangible yet throbbing wounds. Ten years failed to salve the wounds into scars. The raw wounds remain imprinted as if with indelible dye gloating at the passage of time.
If forgiveness is the only balm, as the righteous claims, then doom may be my sad comeuppance. How can the wounded concede forgiveness when the culprit still swaggers in her parade unscathed by the so-called karma or conscience? The latter I assume is nonexistent.
The inability of the eyes to recognize a corporeal bit of the dreaded past, the subconscious compensates with its blow-by-blow exhumation of a presumably dead former self. The carcass of my former self awakens revealing the intangible yet throbbing wounds. Ten years failed to salve the wounds into scars. The raw wounds remain imprinted as if with indelible dye gloating at the passage of time.
If forgiveness is the only balm, as the righteous claims, then doom may be my sad comeuppance. How can the wounded concede forgiveness when the culprit still swaggers in her parade unscathed by the so-called karma or conscience? The latter I assume is nonexistent.
