Gust

"I went to the root of things, and found nothing but Him alone." - Mira Bai


Ronin shift amongst the shades. Fading in and out, losing himself between time, as he tried to keep his feet on the ground. The environment swayed from earthly green to deathly greys. He was dazed, limping on a strained leg that saw him threading the globe on false limbs. Yet, he remain undeterred. The clouds hurl itself, in purple pain, as lightning dashes at it's nearest victim. Thoughts swirled with an aroma of chaos, as Ronin gathered his balance and move unevenly. He was the epidemic of an unforeseen realm, the epidemy of madness. He wished for the end of time, his time. For, he wished to be no part of a world, whose inhabitants bicker and insult at the slightest misdemeanour they could ever wag their tongues upon. He was part of their slippery tongues, wagged and spitted in the most sarcastic form of distaste. Yet, he blurred his vision and heart, for they are merely shadows, like him. A shadow amongst a shadow. He fought alone, in a war raged by the Columbines, who endlessly perpetuate his demise.


The killer in me is the killer in you.


A fog swept through the alleys, smothering the rainbows, and the lights dimmed bringing life to the shadows. He was lost in the face of time, and his own deteriorating condition. The alleys borne whispers amongst the shadows, slips of the tongues by the snakes and canines spurned echoes of lies and deceptions. He picked up his momentum and race for the bridge, at the end of the fog.


Not this time, he sighed.


Once too many, he had seek refuge in the wilderness, for tranquility and unperturbed therapy. Nevertheless, they haunt him like a pack of lies, slither amongst the darkness of night. By day, they surfaced from the rivers, harps in one arm and linger around him throughout the eye of the sun. He was disillusioned, failing to see through the crystal daggers dangling in front of him. And when he does, he wished they'd never exist, and hastened his departure. But, he never did, not till the end of another decade. They stitched themselves upon his heart and plagued his desires. He wished for mercy in the hearts of fire, but they engulfed them in the heat and betrayed his trust, for their hearts was raised out of rust.


Never.


The oasis expanded through the deserts, for another decade or so. Ronin's condition deteriorated with the shadows. He became the Reaper's favourite portrait, a living canvas vandalized by the damned. Yet, beneath the oil and palettes lay his very own stenciled existence. It was there and have always been. The groundwork of perfection, unknown to them unless they searched and gazed beyond the mirrors of question. He knew all along, but they hardly emerged from the turmoil that interlaced his thoughts.


Dawn approaches.

The Columbines slipped into the rivers, exhausted in their Nature.

Can I come along too?

They shook their heads, as he watched them dive into the crystal black waters.


Ronin leaned forth as he peered and gazed into the waters. Dumbfounded, the rivers cast no reflection on whatever. Neither the living nor the dead was featured in it's blackened surface. Curiosity grappled him. He poke through the stilled waters, creating a ripple. Somehow, the ripples echoed across the river and into the rising sun. Subsequently, sunlight raced through the waters, touching upon each and every cell that came in their way. The sudden surge in momentum caught him off guard, as he fell on his back. He witnessed the rapid transition in pale confusion, as the waters fade in shades of gray before eliminating it's own in milky white.


That was random, he thought.


It was morning, a random one. That moment struck a familiar painting that he'd once abolished, in a fit of rage. A moment of clarity in the light of morning, he mused. He picked himself up, and spread his sight across the oasis.


Hallucination?


It was breathtaking, an abstract work of nature beyond art. An unseen reality beyond words expressed. Ronin stood by the river in awe, shaken by nature's art. Questions swirled in dots and arrows, across his mantle. He stared at the once-blackened waters, and amazed at the portrait that lies beneath. He saw...


Himself.

He couldn't help but smile. Is this real? Is this 'it'?


He cupped a handful of water and splashed it across his face in delight. Spun around at the neck of the river, he moved deeper into the waters, unnoticed. In the midst of his rapture, something caught his eye, as they were stolen by a vivid reflection that was cast beneath the skies. An underwater city? Or, a kingdom of clouds? Though the skies hardly hold any city above his head, he became the brunt of a heightened curiosity. He spread his arms across the river like a cutting-edge. And as he does, the surface split itself and presented a slippery painting.


A portrait of a city in reverse.


He braved his own thoughts and doubts and the very calamities that accompanied him through the night.


"I've fallen plenty of times than you already knew of, and the whispers that you cast upon. Nevertheless, every breath of your whisper raised me further than you can ever dream of. I am your uprising, and a revolution of your doubts. Whispers kill those who doubt the lives of others..."

They kill you.

He gave one last look at the oasis and the memories of the Columbines. One breath, and the oasis was gone.

Gasp!


Ronin broke down and fell flat on the grounds. Hands of the fog reached forth onto him, but he persevered against their own devices that once had him chained. He turned to face the skies before him. He surpassed through the fog and lay on the bridge, at the very end of light. So near, yet so far.

Purple clouds eclipsed the skies, and wet the grounds in droplets of pink. He reached up, covered his facade in saturation and smiled. He had surpassed the dawn of century...


Yet,


Another century awaits.