se7en is a collection of seven random stories, narrations or conversations as you may like to call them (or whatever suits you or the entire world). They are conversations between the known and the unknown, the real and the surreal, the living and the dead.
Each of them may or may not be followed or preceded by a song of their own. All opinions, expressed if any, are fictitious and are not really meant to harm anyone’s psychology. That is beyond the scope of the rubbish here..
There is no discounting. There is no return. No, i wouldn't want it that way.
They are everywhere i go. They are always in my head. They feel like a burden i can never rid myself of.
They are the we of me..
I am going to talk about this pretending that you do know something about it. That is the basic premise of this piece. You’ve heard about déjà vu, right? he was certain even if not absolute that people might have even experienced it at some point in their lives. And with that he was even certain that stranger things might have happened too. They had happened to him too, but more from the point of being delusive or so he would like to believe. He had lived his half-life and he believed that it would be safe to talk about delusions and make beliefs: all those little theories that one believed in.
Spring was here again and the animals were in season. reproductive glands were secreting at their fullest. Anything that came close to his vision was an object of passionate yet detached physical engagement. he didn't like emotions, but had no qualms against using them. one could call him a horny dog or whatever. he couldn't care less because he didn't manifest any intelligible symptoms. The world operated horizontally. He liked it more vertically. it was a unique day or something like that. he wasn't really fond of it happening and there wasn't nothing he could to stop it either, but somehow due to his own lack of affection taking over his senses, he went ahead and divulged this tiny detail with someone and it spread to the point of him receiving phone calls and messages from people who didn't care about him but pretended to do so. he felt like a sacrificial lamb or a messiah who was going to be put on a cross.
If humans could sense death, so could animals. Before an animal was sacrificed, it stopped eating, at least people said so. He hadn't really paid heed to this observation. They, the animals, saw other animals being slaughtered in the slaughter house: sliced and diced. They might have been more heartless than the butchers. And then they might have been resigned too. I stood in a pool of blood where the lifeless tasted the poison of each other. Was i being sensitive? I’d rather not judge the tone of the narrator.
It was such a drag. A hall was thronged with cattle. They were people and he wasn’t certain if they were cattle. They weren’t aimless or didn’t look so. On the contrary, he was. That realisation raised two questions. One was whether he was conscious for it looked like he was considering their achievements purely on appearances. In fact, he believed, even if for the moment, that they had definitely achieved more than him even if minuscule in his judgement. And nobody taught that judging was wrong, but everyone treated it like it were. This was his predicament. His suit was fine and so was his shoe. His hair was flatter and not fuller as it he would have wanted it to be, but he wondered if that would make him feel easy. Was he lacking or losing his sheen or confidence or had he lost it already? He spotted a famous page 3 fashion designer. he knew her. His organisation had done a campaign for her or so he was told. Women were the last thing on his mind, but somewhere deep down he wasn’t even farther from it. Like dickens would have said – he would have begged a far less degradation. the second immediate question that came more as a thought was about his purpose. What was his purpose and how was he supposed to find it? What was he doing? and what was he supposed to do? Was he behaving like Phaedrus? Was he? Really? Phaedrus was a far deeper person than he was and he was sure about it. This quest...was it really a quest? He had let life slip by for several years and did nothing but absorb whatever and as little as he could. He didn’t hold on to any of it. It was difficult when he had started, however with time and learning he became aloof. His woman had taught him to aim low in order to save the disappointment. He stopped aiming. He stood in the hall with a barrage of thoughts that hit him from every possible direction and suddenly he felt a sharp pain. He felt a stab in the back - the woman of his life had left years ago. What was he still doing with her theories of compromise?
He wanted to throw away his suit, his shoes and rough up his hair. He tried to think if that would make him feel accomplished? Would that align him with the others? Maybe not, but he’d feel at home..maybe not..maybe.
And then he felt it. it was a déjà vu. you felt it really strong. he felt it had happened, rather you knew it has happened and yet he flowed without being able to do something about it. he was a passer-by to your life at that moment. He saw it slip by and yet you didn't want to admit it. he simply denied the evidence of your senses. he didn't want to apply any logic to it. it wasn't a writer's block he had been feeling for a year or two. it was not that at all. you didn't talk about it, he didn't write about it, he definitely didn't want to dream about it. you just didn't feel that it was it. that's it. it was his firm refusal to admit the manifest. it was pure physics. and then came the clincher – it was a déjà vu and you were in a dream.
Everything was a copy of a copy..of a copy.
Everything was a copy of a copy..of a copy.
happy b'day, child. wake up and smell the shit.