insomniac XII

There's something about the Royal Enfield that increases my restlessness. It exudes a Buddhist like aura - a Zen state of mind that must be attained. The fact that it's a hand-made machine unlike the rest of the lot that are assembled placidly in robotised plants and marketed with insipid and forgetful ads, heightens my desire to possess the vintage ride. The mind of a monk must rebel for it's emancipation and that is the only cause- so one musn't ossify, and stay turbulent, stir up an emotion or its a corpse's life reduced to an hour in a theatre, another hour in a pub and yet another in front of a tv- no! I shall do without it- trade for this meaningless matrix for a few moments like a bird riding a bull.

But dream on, me homie, and I've never been a car guy really- and I know it if a madness persists for a decade now. Rise, for your own sake for a dream is all that keeps you alive now. The want of money has to lead to the want of a castle realised somewhere, or a steel horse that can show you the horizon, a sun setting beside you, the wind tresspassing through your shirt and the chrome mirroring a God-created landscape that resounds with applause for the fleeting visitor with the cheering rustle of the leaves, a river clapping with hits on the rocks and cattle acknowledging thine presence. Thump! THump THUmp THUMp Thump THump thUmp thuMp thumP is all the bull has to retort in cognition.

So what stops you, boy? Utilitarianism will take you to your deathbed and a life would have passed with a dream unfulfilled- now that intimidates me so. so work on that dream, it may be whatever, but live it for this instance will taste different tomorrow; and the spice would have died out.