Dusting up the past, with Hemingway's Broom

  I crept through the forest. I had but one puny little, sick looking stick to protect me. And I knew, I would not be protected, I would not be spared. I was going in there, alone, because at the end of the day, that is who you are. Alone, little, and shit scared.

  The strange thing is, I had always waited for this very moment, I waited for this since forgotten ages, ages when I was young and rash, and my back was straight like a brash skyscraper. I had imagined I'd go in there smiling, into that deep forest, and come out from the other side, unscathed, and victorious, for who can refuse my chains? I'd hunt back, what belonged to me. Hangovers, severe ones, I had back then.

  But now, I am older, and the straightness of it all has reduced into a mild curvature, a sign of age and grace, maybe. But does grace lend one an air of cowardice? Does it?

"Courage is grace under pressure."

  And it was that courage, which pushed me further into the heart of it all, the heart. I was to face the demon, of whom every man on this Earth is terrified. The heart of the demon, is what scared us all, for it is the heart which is unknown. We charter out our brains, and their brains, and the sense of coherence may dis-allude many a great mind. But the heart? The heart is where the darkness lies, it is where the true eccentricity of a mad-hatted wickedness lies.

"All things truly wicked start from innocence."

  Yes, an innocence which I had deflowered. And purgation, was the order of the day.

  Let me tell you, I had met the demon. The demon which was ready to mince me into a vicious heap of sadness. But surprisingly, all she could do was mince up the demon in me. It was the fight of the inner selves, a fight till the end, and my inner self, I saw it die. It died in pain, spitting and shrieking and cursing and writhing all across the concrete floor of that jungle. It was a vicious sight, a sight of the turning of man into a child, through pain, maybe only to be reborn as man again. But, a fairer man.

  Believe me when I say it, by the end of the trial, I had seen butterflies. She, the demon, was there no more, just butterflies, and lots and lots of sunshine. Innocence, not restored maybe, but rejuvenated.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places."

  And so was she, and I, atleast that's what I hoped. I was able to come out from the other side, scathed, free of my chains. Destroyed, yes that too.

"But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated."

  I was victorious.

--------------------------------------------------------

  But then, why do you sit down to pen this then? A victory is not what we want, it is only the pain, that amuses us, and touches us, and maybe somewhere, helps us feel pity for you.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

  And so, the Chronicles of Catharsia continues.