Funfair of masses, the locust{leguminosae} of beggary

Locked the laces on my brown walkers, ground grazing tuxedos of leathery skin and tender touch (the only piece of sparkle that donned my body). And such attire demanded was, for the need needed to not be needed any more, and money I wished upon my hands; and thus, of shaved landscape and a pair of glass I trode the streets for a special leguminosae. And this is not a rare three, but now the common face of shattered dreams and frowned souls, the tale not told of marching flesh upon the sunset, looking to sell whatever they can muster.

Probably themselves...

But it did not and does not matter, for I was in the very same quest, after the very same price; the chance to be sold, and gather money in return (oft known as "getting a job" in this part of the land). And as shiny as the metal is, proves not only to be tempting but, to an extent not known in the absense of need...necessary. And there I went, dressed in but one fancy rag, looking for the fruit of the locust tree, feeling like a racer drone amongst the crowd. And it was a facade feeling, a strange transformation the one that ocurred before my eyes; the transmutation of the well known landscape into a brass land of eerie winds and cracked earth ... one that felt, in every sense of the word, alien and false.

And through the mists of indetermination into the halls of testing, I found the dreaded leguminosae and bought a ticket into the bloody carnival. And it was a house of mirrors at every turn, summoned by the most vaporous of ads and the most ambiguous of intentions, where others like me. But they were performers and I the audience? No, that possible could not be, since our skin was the same and so was the anticipating paint in our gaze. Could I have signed such a foul contract by my mere presence, bounding this play and my part to my unwilling performance? According to previous research, to the "Unified and Simplified Pocket Book of the Universal Rules and Regulations" (paperback edition) and to the oft seriously funny implications of sheer bad luck, there could be only one suitable answer: YES (and most likely it would be written in blood ... the Universe is usually fond of human clichès).

And so, the queue faded away seconds upon minutes upon hours in a never ending (although the phrase I clearly mistaken since it was going to end ... eventually, probably a couple of headaches later)and while, you must believe me, it was both a delightful parade and most of all very much expected, my eyes (not to say the rest of self) were growing weary and dreaded was the climb to such Olympus (since the job giving gods were high above in their altar, clogging the clouds with the chant from below) was becoming less and less exciting by the minute (and the tracks of minutes already past burned deep into us all). But there I was, ready for the bloodshed batallion upstairs, thrown into the hands of a small fate monger which I owed nothing yet. And so not me but all, were there in tempting expectation, witnesses of a ritual three times repeated: five per hour and no more, five at once and not less. That was the desire of chariot gods above. And between the faked smiles of the gladiators the heretic in me stirred in the realm below.

BEHOLD! HERE THEY BE, VIRGINS AT THE ALTAR, CHILLIAD BLESSINGS TO THE ONES HAILED BY THE GODS....

It took a second after I grabbed her arm for her to even notice, the liquor of the high rivers must be oh so strong. I needed about ten seconds and did not feel guilty for stealing that much life.

Her:- I'm about to go... (and she gave me a tired look in search of sympathy, I will probably give her sympathy if our paths intertwine themselves again in the future ... probably)

Me:- Of course you're about to go, right after you answer my question (I said smiling, but with my hand still in her arm). I would just need to know if all the positions are for full time jobs, darling (and just then did I let go).

Her:- (in what seemed an intimacy or such kind of moments) Ow, yeah! they all are, more than twelve hours even some.

I had looked the other way since the beginning of that sentence, and was currently going down the steps far away from Greece and towards a new path with new idols and better gods. I remember I said something to the girl, hopefully it was a sort of "thanks", or perhaps even a "thank you, you saved me hours of bother", I trust it was, I'd never be impolite to a stranger. I gave that a quick thought while my shoes were still tasting the memory of the marbel floor that hosted the fair and I blazed the asphalt with swift numbness.

A thwarted sprinkle, jactitated blur of windy raindrops.

In the blossom of weary nights, where the thunder hides under the scales of gargantuan dreams swallowed by lightning teeth in miniature nightmares ... in those nights, in this night, I wonder where safe heaven is under the crimson stand of thousand many soldiers, thousand lances in a gloomy battlefront.

I have always had an ever changing relationship with rain, or raindrops and mostly the gush of flighty passion oft called wind. That said, I've always liked rain ... in a romantic, and probably naive way; enough so, that I can bluntly say I've always liked the ancient, primitive image I carved of it, rather than the real thing; I can say that and most of you will not meet my feint with two of the most obvious ripostes: a)I've spoiled my mind with noise from tasteless novels and childhood myth, and b)All we see, is but a reflection of our mind's eye.

I trust I have avoided such counter-slashes with but a mere humility, and thus helped myself out of a problem (devised so, probably in my own mind). But the fact remains, I've always liked rain. Of course I find myself annoyed, more times than a pair, by things such as drenchedness and flooding inside my house ... and although I haven't had a heart to heart conversation with Rain, I believe (from our previous encounters) that she will somehow charm me into believing that it's the prankster nature of water that makes it play such tiresome games on the unsuspecting bystander.

But I still like rain. However, she (not Water, or Wasser, but Rain, and neither rain) won't be the actual target of this swiftly fired shot. I was going to mention, that tonight I recalled that usually contradictory feeling I get, while I turn the world as I wait (don't we always wait...for something? always? probably not) under the warm shelter of an umbrella. I said it was a contradictory feeling, twice now. Here lay the two contestants. Sometimes sitting under the hand of moist fate, I feel a sheltered son, not of any mother but of the relentless assault on our days, lives and perhaps most importantly moods. I feel, replaced and relocated, I am alien to the slippery battle, the doom offensive from the Heaven realm onto the heads of us. I am, a watcher, a tormented soul in solitude among the ravages of the healing spray. And then, so are we ... everyone umbrella in hand, running away from the assaulted land. And then, I'm no alien but the vanal self of a man who doesn't like to get wet.

That is one of them...

On the other hand, an umbrella is the defender's last ditch effort. The realization that even when the battle has been lost, we will go down with some dignity, or at least as dry as we can manage. But that's never the case, an umbrella is a marvellous devise to exemplify how storms, rains and different sorts of squalls can achieve their objective even with our fierce opposition (and even at home, where they must face the choice of slowly biting away at the walls or killing some jolly sort of moods, they seem to do both jobs without much trouble): the raindrops splash nearby, the wind bites our ancles, the cars expel the moist in the air and into us, and so on and so on. But, there are times when war is fought and mere skirmishes are not enough and Bright's Realm's soldiers use their weapons ... when wind shows his muscle and wit and the raindrops slash at our faces with the determination of twenty Spartan legions. You and I have both seen this, when wind blows and raindrops open their fiery eyes and defying even our most complex plans at defining gravity, they attack us in perfect horizontal formation. And then there is no shelter, there is no illution, there is no greatness and no honor, the boat sinks and our bodies give and there is no place to hide ... not even in our fortresses, our crystal places. Because in their path there is a statement, a powerful voice to our inner heart, a whispering warning that speaks tongues of old, of thunder and lightning, of storms walking the earth way before human stench. I heard it once, for it was a raging night and their purpose was clear, and with the battlelords screaming, the war cry reached my ears; merely three words that reached me like a closed fist. A sense of sentence that said ... "Cower in fear".