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The train ride – Mr.Styne

This account represents my humble musings and encounters on the Cardinal express 217 alpha. This one in particular has it’s own shades of grey.

The final light had dissipated into its evening shades. The hues of red and lust enticed the horizon through a glorious rendition. The last musings of daylight cut weakly through the canopy of smoke, to shroud my train carriage, as it droned through the city heart. I would have considered the lax of adequate company a disappointment in lure of such a beautiful moment. Alas, I had no thought to spare on company. The illustrious sentiment of the evening held my wit hostage. No man could bleed a better emotion than nature or so I imagined until that moment. She sat with a flower in hand, gently caressing its beauty. The red of the skies and the white of her dress, shed their contrast to blend into her form. As the gentle light kissed the scars on her face, it caught the green in her eyes. 

The evening had met its match and lay slain by her smile. 

I approached her with caution and uncertain trepidation. My skill at a conversation was a pity. While the inadequacy was stark, her beauty made the prospect of introductions even so thoughtless. There was she; an untimely glory and there was me; a sullied man.

Yet, fate took the reins to guide this setting and I found myself next to her, lost in her smile and her hands lost in mine.  

She was a curious creature and kept her secrets close. A story hid beneath her singular scar. It took its leave beneath her left eye and travelled to be lost within the softness of her bosom.

She was a sensual creature. Her dress strained against her breasts with every breath, while her scar stretched with every heave.

She was a fierce soul. The evening had waned and the watchful night had closed in. the carriage had drawn to a halt and the engine stream had swept its length. The journey had run its course and the lady had the gentleman reached their crossroads. I’m not the kind to steal a lady from her man and I let her know. To this she turned to me affronted and scorned thus “it’s not for you to decide on the matters of my company or be referred to an oddity simply owned by a man”. Flustered, I mumbled an apology. To this she softened and raised herself onto her toes; her breath upon mine. She leaned into my embrace and whispered thus “I’m not the kind to be owned by a man. If I did would you steal me away?”

Thus, I stole her way.

We walked the wet alleyways and drunken darkness in hurried strides. we had stollen moments to live and little time to spare. Under the cloak of sliver starlight we to a hearth of our own. 

The rest of those events I recount as thus;

The tempest of her embrace sullied me such, my being continued to burn in languid thought. We could hear the rain and the crackle of the hearth as we lay entwined until the hollow dusk.

This I promise her as I promised myself –

I shall forever remember us; I shall forever remember the way she smiled that voracious night.

I shall bind those moments onto my silent memory until next time.

For, She is freedom; my dirtiest secret. 

Mr. Styne

(Musings of my train ride.)

War and power – Dr. Freckle. 

​To the gathering of peasants and kings, I present to you the notions of war and power. 

I hope in all honesty that my words hold sway where it’s needed the most. 

The idea of power is vacant without war. 

Every game that is played has it’s king and his pieces, moving about to conquer the board. It is entertaining. A grim reminder that we are mere pawns; your move has been decided for you. It is a sanctimonious display of strategy and eloquent deployment of assets; this theatre of power. 

Before you deem my observations as mere ramblings of an opiate clouded mind, I offer you this argument – war honors no sides and power holds no loyalty.

Imagine the man in power. You think of him synonymous with immortality. Here is the secret though; he is mortal and shall perish and rot. For, power that associates with him now, is just bidding it’s time. It waits till another shall rise and wage his war. 

No man is absolute, yet the idea of power is. That is a beautiful thought; Grotesque yet enchanting

Be wary my man; hold fast your dagger my lady. For there is always a secret with a secret and it is this – you might be the king but someone else is pushing you to play. We are merely pieces, you see; power holds no loyalty. You are just another story, Even if you are a king or a peasant like me.

Now do see? Power has no face or scars. It does not need to be a piece on the board; it just is. 

Alas, I find power quite lack luster without war. Like a raven; dark and brooding. There is always someone with a better reason to fight, while another claws at walls to keep the opiates of influence and invincibility. An idea will be born and he will rebel; you shall follow. In the end when you get there, you are just a man fighting your war; there will another with one of his own. 

When his army comes knocking down your halls, what shall you do then? 

For, there is no war that is right or wrong.it is neither righteous nor blood thirsty; yet it decides working of fate.

Thus hold fast to the theatre called life, as I leave you with a warning such: war will honor no sides but its own. Hold onto my words and follow their call and you shall see no harm.

Then again,

 Would you rally for man like me, after you see what power can truly come to be?

– Dr. Freckle

(Submitted to the Academia, to be read at the gathering of kings and peasants. )​

The train ride – Mr. Styne.

It was merely my inadequacy at a conversation ,that I refrained from having one. I preferred the comforts of parchment and smells of ink odors in the contents of my prized books, at any given time, and this was merely a train ride.
Alas, a point was reached, where in, my curiosity and her beauty had me beat. 

‘Finally’ I smirked at my broken resolve.

She was seated all alone against the evening light; a faint glow hugged her frame, as golden light kissed her lips. Her beauty was enchanting and her tears held stories and want of companionship. I approached with caution, my lack of tact and ability to navigate, evident in my stride. 

Yet, the gods smiled upon my weak attempt at dispelling the dull monotones of the solitude ,on this train ride. She smiled, genuine and true. Thus, was born a conversation of color and thought, and yet, a morbid curiosity griped me in a vile hold, while compulsion forced my hand to ask her the reason for her tears shed.  Right then, in that moment, her face wore a weak sorrowful smile. 

(I know you think of me a lowly soul, of no tact worthwhile, but that shall soon abate, as you grasp the reason of her tears and her weak smile.)

“There was a man I thought I loved, there was a man I thought I’d marry” she said with a resigned sigh.

“On a day much like this, in another time, removed from the effects of worldly company, he took me in seclusion, held me fast. In the moment next, he forced his hands up my dress and whispered ‘I do this because I love you thus’. In all this madness I fought his hand. Yet, he held me in a state of undress, then again he whispered ‘I do this because I love you thus’. You must understand my plight confused at the non-consensual atrocities of love, I pushed him forth and cried. He looked at me shocked and vile ,he said to me,

‘Don’t you love me dear?

Didn’t you vow under covers of autumn, that you’d make me happy no matter the cost, don’t you love me dear?

Or is my love to you lost? 

Is there another man, don’t you love me dear?

Without you ,an urge to end myself shall be fought’

Thus, he continued, till words, emotions and force wore me done. Pain and anguish were those moments of sex and when I woke; my dress and he were gone.” She finished with tears in her green eyes.

“Now you tell me sir.”  She gripped me with fervor and anguish, her hands onto mine

“what I do of love like this, isn’t my wasted youth ,a crime? 

“Does the sanctity of a woman under spells of love, escape?

Does my consent mean naught? 

Under the guise of love’s landscape, wasn’t that vile vanity against me an act of rape?”

Stunned, I sat here. Silent, powerless and at loss. In the distance as the final whistle chimed, through her sobs, light caught her endearing eyes, she smiled unto me

“Yes good sir, rape in the guise of love is a crime.”

Mr. Styne

(These are accounts of my train ride.)

The perfect world – Dr. Freckle.

To the academia of the 13 minds,I present,

The perfect world.

The intellect of man is forced to choose perfection of life, or of the work. W.B Yeats 1865- 1939: ‘the choice’ (1993)

Perfection by its more crass description is faultless, beautiful and bountiful in detailed synchrony. To some it is merely a sentiment of betterment, while others perceive it as a balance to imperfection. Alas, in my prudent mind, all these arguments seem to mean the singular thing – perspective.

Perfection, a converted sentiment in the minds of men, has led to making of history as we know it, but I put forth this question, ‘isn’t perfection merely the reflection of our imagined perspective? Merely an idea, so deeply rooted, that every time it surfaces in a mind, it melds and shapes in views of the beholder. 

Thus, I present you this, perfection is an idea limited by our perspective, and if it has to achieve its meaning, it would simply be devoid of a limited perception. Meaning, to attain a perfect state, we would need a perception that evolves, adapts and grows like an organism, organizes and refutes like an ecosystem and co exists like systems on a planet. This alas, if applied to a human mind, is the absurd proposition of one’s mind being transformed into a functional planet or energy system, in principle.

But I digress, 

This view in itself brings fresh questions in my weary mind. If we were to achieve such a state as mentioned above, wouldn’t it simply mean we are working the idea of perfection through a much larger and hopefully better perspective? 

It would still be bound to the singularity of imagination. Indeed a conundrum to this hopeful mind.

Then again,

As I run out of parchment, in all this shallow reflection on the notion of perfection, a rather serious question occurs to me, aren’t my thoughts on perfection as described above, merely a reflection of my limited imagination?
Submitted for your esteemed scrutiny, by yours truly,

Dr. Freckle.