Back from the dead
Traversing through the misty labyrinths into the world of shadows, he walked with his head bowed down with the huge weight of his past. He was a reclusive man with the dense cloud of poignant nostalgia hovering over his mind, bearing the delirious desire to triumph against death. A wretched soul enchanted by the perseverance of smoke rising from the burning city. He crossed the curious terrain where the mountains echoed his thoughts and beheld the houses gutted by tenacious crawlers that consumed them from inside, never halting to take a break from their mad assault. The luminance of the city was fading away and was descending into a pit of unknown origin with incomputable depth, abandoning the city in search of the entrance that led to the paths untouched by oblivion. The claws of uncertainty tore his insides to shreds as he realized that even evading death could not separate him from his irrefutable solitude. This horrifying view affirmed his notion that it had been a long time since a human had walked down the alleys of his beloved city. Was it the doings of the devil who was now coming to drag him to his grave? Had he been deceived by the Satan himself who insidiously led him to a maze made of mirrors? He let out a thunderous symphony of shrieks followed by a fit of laughter that resounded through the city mobilizing the still dust caught in the pestilential air. Anybody who would have witnessed this rare scene would have had reason to think that he was mad. But he was the sanest person alive and perhaps the only one. His mind began to doubt the existence of matter surrounding him as he tried to avoid sinking in the quicksand of obliviousness vainly.
The longing for the living people was so strongly stamped on his heart that he let himself be led by the memory of the perfumed smell coming from the wildflowers scattered on the moors where ones joyous refrains were sung and mysteries of the palm lines were unraveled. As he walked blindly through the streets, he could not bear the sound of the moans uttered by the dried leaves compressed under his bare feet. Murmuring rhythmically, "They make a desolation and call it peace", till the words lost their meaning and were nothing but gibberish. He was attacked by precursory mirages that polluted his peace of mind and increased the speed of his ragged breath. A child with his throat slit coming towards him at a dangerous pace begging for medicines that would tranquilize the pain. A man in his eighties with his eyes plucked out for having seen something he shouldn't have dared to see, crying the tears of blood literally. A mother with powdery skin giving out a mysterious glow rocking her dead infant in her arms lacerated by the thorns that craved for innocent blood. All these fleeting visions of barbarous crimes committed in the past made it impossible for him to hold onto his sense of reality that was assailed repeatedly with strong blows. Until he saw, as if in a trance the one vision that made him flinch with fear, that touched the deepest cords of his heart about whose existence he was unaware till then. It was only then that he reached the point of lucidity in his destructive madness.
Glancing at the grey sky he screamed, wept and screamed again, ruing his decision of abandoning his grave. Then he ran without looking back and every time he stopped, he found himself at the same place from where he began his fruitless quest. For where could he possibly run to escape from this heartrending reality?