Despicable son of a whore. I muttered under my breath, to no one in particular, with a sigh of utterly helpless resignation. For I knew I would never know the recipient of these vile words.
Just a few moments ago I was walking toward my ride. The bird, as I call it, is a beautiful beast. To borrow an apt phrase it's 'muscular with a tinge of feminine beauty'. I stepped closer to it as a longish white thread on top of the fuel tank distracted me. I reached to flick it away but it wouldn't move. It was a part of the fuel tank now. An ugly, unholy scratch--most possibly made by a key-- that ran from the top of the tank right down to the bottom. My heart sank. The scratch could well have been on my body. It sure hurt as much.
In a fit of rage I leapt around to locate the lurking perpetrator, should he be hiding behind the walls or pillars. As the rage ebbed in a few seconds, the futility of it sunk in. But the rage had not subsided completely. I picked up a small, sharp piece of concrete pebble and looked around to scratch something that would get me my revenge. Futile attempt again. My shoulders slumped soon after as I tossed the pebble back to the pile of rubble.
The world had not only changed for me, it was making me wake up to its irreversible nature in a rude shock. What would I do if I find that person? Would I go for the jugular? Would I slash his throat open and let the squirting stream of blood soak my clothes? The answer is an unambiguous no. Just as I know I am a romantic optimist (my first instinct was to see the scratch as an innocuous white thread stuck to the fuel tank), I am also certain that I am not violent in a physical way. So, what would I do if I find that person? I would ask him questions. I would analyse him. I would get clues to his psyche. I would know he is incapable of admiring beauty. I would know he would never possess beauty. I would know he would live his life resenting beauty that is everywhere. I would know he would never feel the lightness of spirit that pure beauty supplies to people who don't resent it. That would be my revenge. I have known such people. I have known such young boys in my time. He would be one in that line. A heart full of tar of ugliness.
I believe I want to be a writer. I believe I enjoy writing immensely. I have told my close friends about my ambition in several gatherings. Yet, I can't help but admit I am a lousy wannabe writer. I just don't write enough. I hide behind a theory created entirely by me--perhaps as an excuse--that I am not sensitive and very few things move me enough to write. Even while the veracity of that theory remains in doubt, I have managed to write something ostensibly inspired by a scar, well, a scratch on metal to put it less romantically. There have been occasions before. I have written pieces --too few and far between -- having been inspired by events or scenes or just plain beauty. I know I have poured my heart out on this. It makes me feel better. But I am not making any false promises to myself. I haven't moved on. Every time I see that scratch it is going to push that nail a little deeper. I will get it fixed. I also know that I don't hold on to such things as a loss or a setback for long. I know once it starts looking like new I will forget about it. But I will never forget a scratch made me write. Made me take it personally. The bird will, in due course, earn a few scratches, be inflicted with a malicious ones, but now I know every scratch will move me, sap my spirits. Every scratch or dent will make me type furiously. I will take every scratch personally.
