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.