Chapter 2 (Cont.)
Third year on the broader scopes and scars I was dispossessed like a raptor who has no use with preying stunts now not not was I was I I was ideological in behaving with the world kings after kings after kings mighty singular mighty singular they are all dead do we treat them with guillotine it's a spectacle people are predisposed with violence to the oppressor the moment tide is in their favour is it enough or is it is it enough or is it... I met Frank at one such time, foregone the ideological collapse it was somewhere around my brandished suffering as if all my pain were made into a totem and dragged into the enema of catacombs. I did not meet Frank, as a totemic ruin, in the catacombs. It seemed then by silent wings there was a case of the crestfallen roof being elated to juvenile shrubs from where a hand emerged not angelic nor demonic but a humane hand you could see all the marks and familiar hairs there but it's not humane what do we know of humanism anyway does it mean good will when malice is intrinsic in the core of humanity do we accuse Satan for inciting Cain it was within... Tearing the roof asunder, Frank's hand offered not help neither pity but camaraderie but one without no expectation for reciprocation, he did not force me to align with his views but, he took disagreeable measures in his steadfastness but with utter honesty Frank was not yet a rebel, a potential rebel in the making but a theorist, a visionary, an analyst. Unlike my other friends he seemed self-absorbed, shunned company and seemed to be engulfed in politics. What was the state of Tatterstown back then? More than two decades have passed since I was at Princegrave, the governance of Tatterstown, as I recall, was not utterly different, two snakes spiraling on the same locus. Time's changed but the dystopia remains. I am attuned to my life, caring for my wife and giving guidance to my unruly son, I carry out my duties at Datamangle Inc with sincerity, and I still partake in my hobbies: theatre. Gardening... I have not thought about him for years... Following our graduation, Frank had disappeared without any word or explanation. Years passed and his conversations with mine still echoed. As I was rising through the ranks in the corporation with higher duties and obligations and I suppose the dusts of time had a primary role as well, the memories of Frank started taking the rearer seats more and more till they found the exit. Sesame! Here we go: forced entry. I recognise those eyes now. I had a feeling that I had seen them before but on the brink of paranoia and it's vector of multilateral overanalysing, I thought "no way it is possible that I seen this man before". More than two decades have passed, faces change but not to the point of disremembrance. Frank was clean faced then, the dense beard eliminated large portion of clues required for connecting the dots. Is he taking a disguise? I suppose the beard is doing it's job because.... I can imagine Frank without beard now, looking at him. Just the way he used to be: unreadable gaze and lips which only contorted for smirks than compassionate smile or laughter. He had hardly laughed, the rare times I could make him laugh, or a resemblance of lalaughter, I would feel somewhat proud inside because he was a humourless bastard. Maybe that was just the outside. Someone who feels so assured in political endeavours, I guess, is constantly assessing the weakness in the leviathan of oppression, then in his mind, is ramming daggers, pins, sharpnels, zweihander, sabre, cannons, dragunov, antimaterial rifle, neurotoxin, warheads... Then in his contraideological vanity, making scorn and laughter. I can imagine him laughing like a lunatic in these scenarios, regular jokes can hardly absorb into his skin let alone find the funny bone.
