Point Of View

“There are always two faces of a coin”, people often say but they never mention the six faces of the cube or the faces of a sphere for instance. These phrases come and go. They only make sense when you look at them from a particular direction. That's why I act a little reluctant when I hear any of these. These phrases are incomplete for me but if used at the right place and at the right time, these phrases can solve an argument in a flash. It's the power of words that people usually don't understand.

But what’s kept in words anyway? They are nothing but traps. Traps which seal down feelings from a writer’s pen. Traps with their keys hidden in the reader’s eyes. Nothing more than traps.

Coming back to the different faces. The key message trapped in those words, according to me, is about the presence of multiple points of views. "The unlimited possibilities of this universe."

Let me explain the density of those words with an example. The example that I use today, I experienced it myself and I’m sure all of us can relate to it.

“When you travel, you move. You move on the road but the road stays. You move on the rail but the rail stays. You move on the never ending ocean, but the ocean stays. But you move on. You look at those beautiful fields passing by, they please you. You look at the still grains churning as you go through them, 'what a piece of beauty', you think. You look at the small brown hut in the middle of nothing. It amuses you. And then if you are lucky you wave at the little farmer standing on his little farm, all alone. Then he takes some time out of his farming and waves back at you. All this gives you a smile. But did you know you weren’t the only person he waved back at? There were dozens of others who did the same as you. They all waved and moved on. Not one of them stopped and asked his name. Not one of them stopped and asked if he lived there all alone in the wilderness. Hell, there were some who didn’t even wave. Just threw their trash outside the car which happened to land on his farm. That day he tasted Pringles for the first time. It was a different taste. He liked it. And then he threw the wrappers and boxes in his garbage dump, which no one bothered to clean. After that, he went back to his hut, lit some candles and then back on his window. Hoping for someone to drop some more gifts for him. But you just move on.

Have you ever wondered about his story? Why was he farming in the middle of nowhere? Alone, no gas, no electricity, no communication at all with the rest of the world. Only if you would have stopped. Only if you would have asked his name. He would have told you that he grew up there alone with his mother. He would have told you that from the very first of his memories, he only remembers his mother. His mother who was fleeing from some bad people. Some bad people who have killed his father and his brother. His father who was a drunken gambler. A drunken gambler who had some very good terms with some other bad people. Bad Luck for the drunken gambler as the bad people he had good terms with didn’t have very good terms with the other bad people. And the other bad people were after the drunken gambler as he pissed a certain someone who was now destined that he wouldn't even let his family's essence to roam free in this world.

It was the mansuetude of the benign family friend who gave them a lift till there with some farming equipment. He was just one year old when all this happened. He never knew his father. All this was coming from his mother's grave. She died six years ago when he was thirteen. And when she died, she left him a letter. A letter all about his father and his family. A letter with a promise. A promise of never leaving the land of his mother’s grave. As for his mother, she was the one who sacrificed her life for his safety and she would continue to protect the even after she is no more.

But you never stopped. And he never told you all this. Only if you would have stopped and heard this from his own blabbering mouth, you would have known that he was lying. Lying about his drunken father, lying about his fleeing mother. Lying about everything. Only if you would have stopped in the middle of nowhere to meet a stranger in his land. You would have seen the bones. The remains. The rotten, half eaten human bodies. You would have seen him and his brother and his father eating his mother alive. And when there was nothing left of her, he and his brother ganged up on their father. And later how he was the last survivor of their cannibal family, thrown out by the society, he had to hide in the wilderness. And there, he waited. Waited for people. People who are too innocent and too kind”.

This story is very special to me. And I assure you that it's all true. How do I know all this you ask me? Well, let's just say, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I live in a little brown hut and strangely enough, I love the taste of blood.