Ecce homo. (Behold the man).
They sat down. Alcohol and cigarettes. A shy side glance revealed their slender beauty, an intermission before the opening of lips. All of this occurred prior to the unbroken first glance which would resonate, propagate, a shock-wave suffusing the harps which harmonized him. Within, a flash, thunder, seized by the divine, he contemplated:
Oh how you too are lost in the storm: the shifting tides of movement and moving things. All but a vessel vanishing swiftly in the streams of being: of substance, dissolution, and of relations, fading memorials, a cheap fling! Where now are the footprints of those of pomp, of those of vanity, of those who sauntered the great courts of Alexander, Napoleon, Caesar and Saladin? Where lies the division between the stable boy and warring king if not Earth’s grounds layered by the laurels of eternity? What difference is there in those tender steps made towards the gallows and bedrooms, of executed and executioners, of loved and lovers? Perhaps, if tossed upwards you’d see, the objects of your pride, the endless oceans of mediocrity.
Thus, cast aside the veils which cover your heart: your truths, your ideals, your primitive beliefs. Let us surmount the summits where our senses, softened by the robes of moonlight, shall yield to Dionysian dreams. My wayward soul, hold, ascend and see, from the peaks of Kashmir, whirling dunes of destiny.
“So, tell me about yourself, Zakee Ibrahim”.