I walked on, staring at the ground, not concerned about running into anyone. In this place, it was common. With as much light as a small lamp in a big house, no one cared anymore about running into anyone.
No one apologized and no one looked back to give irritated looks. When you're living a hundred feet below the ground, the weight of the world is literally on your shoulders and common niceties are quickly forgotten.
I live with roughly two hundred other people, common folks. No war prisoners, no nothing. Truth be told, no one recollects when we were brought here. Why we were brought here. It just felt right. The kind of feeling you get when you're in a dream. You know it's not what is normal, but it feels right. You blend in.
My biggest hope was, that this indeed WAS a dream. However, I let go of that hope several years ago.
We were all given our own separate houses. Everyone got their own ration, equal for everyone. There was no money. In a weird way, we were all equal, but it didn't feel like justice. Every thing was shared. And that is something that no one likes.
I remember those sunny days, and they were literally sunny because there's no sun in this darn place, when I would preach the lyrics of Imagine. Thinking of this Utopian world were every thing would be shared, every person would be equal. It's only when I was put down here, that I realized the fickle nature of humans. Turns out, we don't like to share, we like inequality as long as we're on the good side of the threshold and we certainly don't like being told to do the above things especially when we don't want to. It's cute how much we like to think of Utopia without ever realizing what an illusion it is. Of course, the hint is in the meaning of the word, but we are persistent.
There was every thing down there, beautiful gardens and lakes but it all seemed dull. I walked on to the place they called 'Reflection Point'. Or that was what it was referred to by the people in here.
Reflection Point was at the far right of this underground hole we lived in. It traversed the entire length of our abode and was a portal to a different world. Not literally, but figuratively. It was a humongous window, looking out to blue skies. They somehow gave us sunlight from there. It was the kind of sunlight you would get on a cloudy day. No direct rays of the sun, but light enough to make you feel upbeat. But there were no clouds, just seemingly endless blue skies. Sometimes we wondered whether we were down below the ground or up above the clouds. This light was what helped us live physically and mentally. People would come up here, reminisce for hours on end, looking into the endless blue abyss wondering what lay on the other side.
Many had lost their minds over it. There had been numerous attempts to break the glass, but none successful. In a weird way, the Reflection Point was a portal to keep us alive and sane as well as to make us insane.
One had to be careful around Reflection Point. It would be healthy to reminisce about our old life, about the sunny days, thinking and making up days that we spent in the sun, appreciating its warmth and its splendour. But there was a fine line between reminiscing about those days and becoming obsessed with them. A claustrophobic's greatest relief is seeing the light of the day. But the claustrophobic quickly turns into a schizophrenic when he realizes that there is no escape and that this hole is just an illusion.
I would often go up to Reflection Point to seek inspiration to write and sing and to rid myself of my frustrations. There would be no literal writing or singing. It was all in the mind. I would often 'write' about travelling around in a car, with the sun roof down, taking in the smells of grass and soil. I would often 'sing' about riding around in fields driving tractors and tending to crops. I would do those things, but never ever would I detach myself from reality. It sucked, but I was brave enough to accept that. But that day, I crossed the line between sanity and insanity.
As I sat there that day, something snapped. I was delightfully happy in that instant for no reason at all and cared no more. I stood up and ran towards the humongous window and smashed into it. Nothing happened. I didn't expect anything to happen. I got up, and with a mad insanity and a wide smile, I went back to repeat my action. I didn't feel any pain. With every collision with the wall, my elation increased even though my physical injuries increased. With every collision, I could feel my soul gradually coming out from this metaphorical hole that had become so small because of my frustration and this hole of a place. I could have stopped that day, but I knew that the hole would close forever if I didn't do this. With every collision I also felt my body giving way. I knew that I only needed one more push and then I would be free. As I summoned up all my courage and strength I smashed into the window one last time and collapsed into a heap.
It was blue every where.
No one apologized and no one looked back to give irritated looks. When you're living a hundred feet below the ground, the weight of the world is literally on your shoulders and common niceties are quickly forgotten.
I live with roughly two hundred other people, common folks. No war prisoners, no nothing. Truth be told, no one recollects when we were brought here. Why we were brought here. It just felt right. The kind of feeling you get when you're in a dream. You know it's not what is normal, but it feels right. You blend in.
My biggest hope was, that this indeed WAS a dream. However, I let go of that hope several years ago.
We were all given our own separate houses. Everyone got their own ration, equal for everyone. There was no money. In a weird way, we were all equal, but it didn't feel like justice. Every thing was shared. And that is something that no one likes.
I remember those sunny days, and they were literally sunny because there's no sun in this darn place, when I would preach the lyrics of Imagine. Thinking of this Utopian world were every thing would be shared, every person would be equal. It's only when I was put down here, that I realized the fickle nature of humans. Turns out, we don't like to share, we like inequality as long as we're on the good side of the threshold and we certainly don't like being told to do the above things especially when we don't want to. It's cute how much we like to think of Utopia without ever realizing what an illusion it is. Of course, the hint is in the meaning of the word, but we are persistent.
There was every thing down there, beautiful gardens and lakes but it all seemed dull. I walked on to the place they called 'Reflection Point'. Or that was what it was referred to by the people in here.
Reflection Point was at the far right of this underground hole we lived in. It traversed the entire length of our abode and was a portal to a different world. Not literally, but figuratively. It was a humongous window, looking out to blue skies. They somehow gave us sunlight from there. It was the kind of sunlight you would get on a cloudy day. No direct rays of the sun, but light enough to make you feel upbeat. But there were no clouds, just seemingly endless blue skies. Sometimes we wondered whether we were down below the ground or up above the clouds. This light was what helped us live physically and mentally. People would come up here, reminisce for hours on end, looking into the endless blue abyss wondering what lay on the other side.
Many had lost their minds over it. There had been numerous attempts to break the glass, but none successful. In a weird way, the Reflection Point was a portal to keep us alive and sane as well as to make us insane.
One had to be careful around Reflection Point. It would be healthy to reminisce about our old life, about the sunny days, thinking and making up days that we spent in the sun, appreciating its warmth and its splendour. But there was a fine line between reminiscing about those days and becoming obsessed with them. A claustrophobic's greatest relief is seeing the light of the day. But the claustrophobic quickly turns into a schizophrenic when he realizes that there is no escape and that this hole is just an illusion.
I would often go up to Reflection Point to seek inspiration to write and sing and to rid myself of my frustrations. There would be no literal writing or singing. It was all in the mind. I would often 'write' about travelling around in a car, with the sun roof down, taking in the smells of grass and soil. I would often 'sing' about riding around in fields driving tractors and tending to crops. I would do those things, but never ever would I detach myself from reality. It sucked, but I was brave enough to accept that. But that day, I crossed the line between sanity and insanity.
As I sat there that day, something snapped. I was delightfully happy in that instant for no reason at all and cared no more. I stood up and ran towards the humongous window and smashed into it. Nothing happened. I didn't expect anything to happen. I got up, and with a mad insanity and a wide smile, I went back to repeat my action. I didn't feel any pain. With every collision with the wall, my elation increased even though my physical injuries increased. With every collision, I could feel my soul gradually coming out from this metaphorical hole that had become so small because of my frustration and this hole of a place. I could have stopped that day, but I knew that the hole would close forever if I didn't do this. With every collision I also felt my body giving way. I knew that I only needed one more push and then I would be free. As I summoned up all my courage and strength I smashed into the window one last time and collapsed into a heap.
It was blue every where.
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