He would clamor in his usual ways, ‘I hate these religious pimps. These men and women, alike in their contempt of human life, in search of something beyond life. The obsequious nature of their love and their belief in god and the final deliverance. What nonsense? They are all the same, like you and me, these bigotry filled people full of ethereal convictions. They talk about life as if it were a mere speck of passing in this infinite universe. Like there’s something grandeur than life. Like a lifetime isn’t enough for their grand soul. You see, tears of compassion are easy for them. It comes natural. The airs they assume must reek the heavens’.
Mr. Floyd once told me that the worst thing in life is a wasted talent. He may just have been sobering up then but when he spoke I would stop attending to life and start heeding to his existential rant on human existence and the nature of diabolical crisis thrust upon us mere humans, by the virtue of living in societies. Little did I know that he would abandon our hedonistic ways and turn to a radically spiritual mode of living.
He was my role model. Not for his ideals which seemed platonic but for the way he carried himself, aloof from the world, alien in nature and sick in his ways. He contemplated rape yet he was a true gentleman. He wrangled his malevolent ideals around the family but he was a noble son, loving and caring yet never displaying. He schemed against his friends but he prized them like his own possessions. He was like one of those exquisite souls full with contradictions, like a capitalist with ideals of a communist. Though our childhood, puberty and commencement of manhood, he was the one with balls. He was feared and loved at the same time for the air he carried was that of a wise old man, never disgruntling, never coughing up vexations.
‘Cogito ergo sum’ I declared.
‘You vain motherfucker’ he let out a sinister laugh.
‘You laugh like a witch’ I smirked. He consented.
He was the love of my life, for he gave me courage. ‘Instead of approaching girls, those lass should do themselves a favor’ he taught me. I complied. For years and years, I never managed to make-out with a single girl. He let his wicked wail at my disappointment. We chuckled together.
‘You know what Hemingway said’ I enquired
‘What do I care?’ he rolled his beany brown eyes.
‘It’s not about getting drunk. It’s about staying drunk’ I lolled.
‘Now that’s an idea’ he replied enthusiastically like it was a challenge. After a couple of months, his family had to throw him into a rehab.
He had a vice and it was that he loved life too much. But he loved breasts much more, I guess. He was fascinated by breasts. Women were fine but it was those breasts that got his mind swirling. ‘I see breasts flying everywhere man. It’s amazing how simple these objects are yet one needs discerning eyes to understand the grand meaning of such a creation. These bouncy, mushy, fleshy bosoms fill my heart with great ideals. I am truly alive when I witness those plump and eatable and beautifully smiling objects’ he blushed.
‘Why don’t you cut the crap and get a pair of those’ I told him. A week later he fell madly in love with his cousin. Although he succumbed to injuries that one sided lovers yield with scorn, he was glad that she knew of this infection. It was a farce, the way he projected his feelings to the poor little cousin. It would have been sinful for the poor little girl if she even thought of him in such a way. With anxiety and fear, she complained about the incident to her mother who in turn, without any reservation, tittle tattled such a crime to his mother, who in turn, let her sisters and their husbands know of her son’s mischief, who in turn banished him from attending any family functions thus denying him any future family audience.
‘Now, that’s a talent’ I remarked.
‘Why’ he asked.
‘To escape from all societal constraints in one stroke’ I rejoindered.
‘Ha!’ he drawled, ‘It feels really great to achieve freedom’. He continued ‘I was contemplating suicide just yesterday. Now I conclude that only free men can commit suicide’.
‘Why so’ I inquired.
‘Well you see, we are bound by life. And by life I mean, by what surrounds us’. He cupped and lighted a cigarette. ‘You see my friend, what surrounds us is dogshit in the name of family and friends and lovers and enemies and what not, all human and all devouring. It is the fear that binds us together….’
‘What fear’ I interrupted.
‘Well, fear of everything. We are humans and we are fearful of everything in life. It’s the first instinct that grows on us since the day we pop out of those lovely vaginas. It is something that’s primal in us. So, when we talk about societies we are actually talking about the collective fear that has glued us into safety, into the arms of a collective greed of living and enjoying and loving and hating. It’s all the same…’.
‘So, you mean to say that our individual fear has evolved and matured the world as we now know it?’ I grew interested.
‘Why do you think, we humans created god in the first place? It’s the fear of uncertainty. We have all scientific advancements in our hands to understand the universe physically now. But imagine the horror when it thundered and hailstorms swept over the little settlements and suddenly the sun shines bright enough to have a noontime orgy. Those first humans should have gone nuts, man’ he grew excited. ‘That’s how the first humans created the concept of an omnipotent being who rules nature and thus with time it evolved into a way of life and this and that and what do we know, we have different religions directing and nutmegging our lives. It was the fear, man’. Floyd suddenly gaped and soliloquized Nietzsche, ‘Is man one of God’s blunders? Or is God one of man’s blunders?
Suddenly, Floyd stood up, slender and fat, like a bottle of coca cola, reached out his hands to the rear pockets and rummaged for something important; a piece of paper which he hastily unfolded and there I saw a sketch of a man being raped by a goat. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘You made it?’ I was taken aback.
‘It’s a horrible drawing for sure’ I remarked, not able to grasp anything.
‘It’s symbolic’ he asserted. ‘The man, who is also a representation of god is being banged by a goat, also a representation of god’ he smirked. ‘The goat symbolizes most innocent form of nature, weak and faultless the man represents himself, vile and corrupt. In this way, the goat, like mother nature is free to do anything it likes but the man, you see has to take it in. And such is our human existence. We have to take it in no matter what. We have superior consciousness which guides us into deliverance but it is our sense of propriety which inhibits our true potentials. Thus, if anyone who dares to challenge this law is challenging god himself. And what challenge but the challenge of taking one’s own life is harder and diviner. He who commits suicide is the one who takes on the challenge of freedom and excels on it’ he expounded.
‘What are you taking about? I clearly don’t think so’ I retreated.
‘It came to me like a vision the other night’ he grew excited. ‘I was taking a dump and in the tranquility of those cold, tiled walls, I experienced a spiritual moment. I had an epiphany. Never was I so clear. It is but death that makes us weak and withers our soul but as we surficially forget that we will die in the end, the unconscious mind doesn’t and it displaces our fear into actions, into activities, into hobbies and passions and lust and employment and family life and all that comes with being human. How can we be but free when we have to carry such anxieties’ throughout our lives? How can we be free when freedom is taken away by the idea of final deliverance? How can we be free when the society takes our freedom and inhibits our potentials? It’s a crooked world and we ought to live it like the way we want, without a conscience’.
‘So, you are ruminating about committing suicide? I wondered.
‘No, on the contrary, I am going to live my life to the fullest’ he answered.
‘But why?’ I was stupefied.
‘Because it’s a challenge to human existence now that I have decided to choose life over death. It’s a message I need to make clear to everyone now that I know the truth. The most daunting task in the whole wide world is to act like an idiot when you are not. And it’s fun to live. Don’t you think so?’ he probed with screeching eyes.
‘It certainly should be fun to live like a barbaric with those funny thoughts hovering around his thick skull, never piercing and never escaping’, I thought.