Riding the high.

So, what does one do once he/she has reached the top?

What does he do when he feels that he has outpassed feeling, and the world floats away at an ever so steady tempo?

His hands work without his consent. His eyes see without his control, the brain reacts without his awareness, though the music assures him that he'll be safe. He's slipping into higher levels of perception, and is unsure whether he'd want to leave the safety of reality behind.

Fear battles desire, he stops. Clears his head, and chooses desire.

Desire, to go higher and higher till it makes no difference whether he went higher or lower.

Desire, to ask the questions that he would shrink from in reality.

Desire, to laugh, to be free from all obligation and expectation. Free from rules.

Yet the music plays with him, toys with him, drops him down and turns away from him.
Sweeps him off, embracing him through the mountains of doubt and insecurity, he hopes to scale them someday. She lets him run free on the meadows of confidence and innocence.

Here he gets nutrition from the soil below him and the sun above him, grows, yearns, learns, laughs, cries, frolics and goes to sleep.

He wakes to find the tree full grown, and he detached from it.
He ripens and realizes that it's time to move on.
Higher things await him across the door from his world and comfort.
He moves on and she meets him.


She pleases him and takes his money. He is pleased, he goes on down the staircase, to the dimming lights below. He grabs the burnished doorknob.
The door creaks open under the fear-filled wrench he gave it.

The pitch of the road shines the streetlights onto his face.
Rainwater trickles down the manhole cover.
He walks to the manhole and jumps into it. Sewer-water - mankinds deposit of filth - surrounds him and drags him on.

Pre-script:

Six syllables per line, sometimes an extra unstressed syllable is squeezed in without disturbing the metre. The rhyming pattern is A-B-A-A-C-C-B. Unconventional yes, but this sort of adds a sting to the paragraphs' endings, in accordance to the main theme.

Death of a young man.

Troubled sleep, not too deep,

Occupied all his nights.

When awake, it would creep,

Discreetly, then to sweep

Him back to dreams, nightmares.

He would writhe, unawares,

Grotesque thoughts, ugly sights.

Morning sun, he would roam,

Droopy eyes, shuffled gait,

Streets unknown, lead to home.

Shifting thoughts, frothing foam.

Passing time, wasting days,

Working on with an empty gaze,

Pending work, cannot wait.

He is rich, Rolls Royce

Earning money, buying things,

No mistakes, has no choice,

Smart and suave, James Joyce,

Clinching deals, crunching sheets,

Turning cogs, march-past beats,

Empty mind, no Saturn's rings.

As a child, he would play,

He would dream, fairytales.

Making trouble, running away

To places private. Stay

over with friends, young boys,

Treehouses, wooden toys,

Backpacks and hiking trails.

Bruised elbows, marbles won,

Skipping rope, hidden treasure.

Trying to stare at the sun,

Learning to whistle "Your ma' hun".

Lie alone, in the tree house

With magazines that arouse,

The forbidden pleasure.

Then came college, too soon,

Don't do drugs, must do well,

Parents' hopes, money's boon,

Ivy League, no full moon,

Live up to the expectations,

Games and sports, meager rations.

Perfect grades, head did swell.

Then, campus interviews,

Swept him off to Wall Street.

Houses with ocean views,

Trousers, ties, leather shoes.

High society, finest wine

Bosses coming over to dine.

Matte finis, velvet sheet.

Trophy wife, still no say,

Books for Bed - Starter's Guide.

Two point four kids, valet,

Son - tennis, daughter - ballet.

Thus life went on, clockwork,

Never stop, don't think, work.

The child who lived, hath died.