Blahsphemy

The alarm claimed another beautiful dream. Together they lay there like half eaten carcasses by some vile beast. All scorched by the brutal alarm's ring before they could fill the sleepers brain with happy thoughts and what not. They call this reality, said one dream as it flapped its burnt wings.     

They call this the slaughterhouse, the guide's voice echoed off the empty halls. Slaughter house? Then why is this surgically clean? As if guessing what was going through every visitors mind, the guide continued. This is where great ideas were crucified. That's the podium where E=MC2 died after being stoned with quantum physics. And that my friends is the apple tree where the serpent sold his ideas to Adam and Eve. The very tree that dropped an apple on Newton's head giving him gravity. Isn't it evil? Well, who am I to plant my ideas in your mind, the guide guffawed. The eerie silence that filled the halls was marred by the hushed whispers of the visitors. The are getting ideas, thought the guard. For years he has been doing this and he knew what will happen next. Are you getting any ideas?        

Why do some people hold on to beauty when they have exceeded the limit. Why don't they realize that the beast also needs its share?

There are two ways of looking at this problem, said the wise one. One is to look away from it. The other way is to look deep in to it. But, quipped the idiot, that will leave us with only one way doesn't it?

The world ends here, he said, pointing to the deep abyss. All that we do is come till here and look at the abyss in wonder. The only thing that had ventured beyond that is no more, he added. Everyone looked at him. He was an old man with tattered clothes and a limp. No one knew how he became the curator of the abyss. The visitors were curious. What could've gone beyond the end of the world? What could've dared to jump into that abyss and survived? What on earth was that? The old man cleared his throat once again and muttered under his breath; imagination, without it the world will end.      

I will jump when the bell tolls three, thought she, precariously perched on a window sill 25 floors above the ground. Little did she know that the clock's hour hand was struggling to inch ahead. The battery that powered its movement had drained. She waited and waited until sleep came and embraced her. In her sleep she floated down like a feather. Only to be woken up for a second before her skull smashed to smithereens on the pavement.  

I am scared now. The same story seems to be haunting me. It came to me while I was asleep. It was there as I started keying in this. It was there when I was desperately trying not to remember it. Let me end this story before it comes back again. 

"Looks like life has taken a back seat. Everyday brings in its own load of troubles and dumps it on you. You just waddle in all that shit to stay afloat. Until someone comes and flushes you down." Sounds great isn't it? The writer asked his audience of an empty chair and a scraggy cat. The cat got startled by the sudden outburst. The chair just sat there dazed, like the millions of editors he had assaulted with his manuscripts.   

You have to squeeze it out. It will never come out in its own. The advices were many. Deep in his heart he knew that no amount of squeezing will work. He was pretty sure that none of his advisors have tried it themselves. They were just echoing the stupidity passed down through ages. After all, how can one squeeze his own mind? Is ideation as easy as getting toothpaste out of the tube? Well, why don't you try it? He is waiting.