plastic creatures

Boredom. Shrek and the dragon are on my desk. Plastic beings on particleboard terrain. I am their god, omniscient and wrathful. I tried placing them really close to each other once to see if they would fuck. They never did. Stupid, frigid, plastic creatures. Even my divine will is subservient to theirs. They desire—oh they do—passionately. And why should I forbid them to?

A few inches from where they stand is the desk’s edge from where they could fall off and lose one of their plastic limbs. And their omniscient god might not be there to pick them up as he is busy obeying the whims of a higher god who, in turn is busy kissing the ass of an even higher god who is probably filing her nails up in her posh office at the topmost floor. The hierarchy of ass-kissing can be confusing like mutant coffee blends. If Shrek and the dragon knew that I don’t give a hoot about them, can their plastic neurons still convince their plastic hearts that I am full of love and compassion? Would they think less of me if they knew that I also have less magnanimous gods to serve? Would they revolt if they found out that I tried to initiate a mating season for them, without their knowledge? But I love both of them, like a master loves his slaves.

It is a god’s prerogative to dispense love like that, as much as it is a tyrant’s entitlement to warp history, defiling the sacred and valorizing the iniquitous. I, too, am a plastic creature in a bigger particleboard terrain. But I do know what my gods have done and are doing. And I will not fall for some cheaply engineered trick to mate with another plastic creature. I live my life guided by my passions, consciously avoiding the edge of the desk lest I plummet down the abyss, knowing fully well that my gods will do nothing but stare and mutter “oh there goes another one.” I wish I didn’t know.

Ignorance can sometimes conjure wonders. Bliss, as they say, comes with it. And solace, too. Ignorance makes you look forward to a glowing future, however nebulous, however implausible. Ignorance, like faith, promises troves of dreams fluffier than your pillows. But once you believe, you get shackled to the whims of the gods. Then they pull the strings and start the puppet show to the shrieks of a rowdy mob demanding carnal entertainment. You get used to the charade and start believing that the show’s thin plot is your life.

Jester’s hats.

Luscious Frills.

Painted smiles.

Satin dominoes.

On the other hand, those who are cognizant of the grim truth have grown morose and brooding, but unshackled. Free to obey the dictates of their hearts. Free from the grip of hollow institutions. For they know that institutions stand for nothing but the interests of their founders. Beliefs are spread not necessarily because of the noble goals they preach. So they trod on with scabby feet, nursing their troubles with reason. That can be hard. That is why some vainly wish they could cling again to the solace that empty rituals bring.

I am part of that pack now. I am way past the point of no return. There are times when I do miss being in the comfort zone of a puppet show in which every scene is contrived and sure. But I cannot stand having shackles on my feet and hands. My outlook is a lot clearer now, grim and raw, yes, but clearer. Life can be grim and raw, too. At times, I even think that the abyss at the edge of the desk holds things more concrete than fluffy dreams. I will get there. In time.

And then the plastic creatures on my desk will rejoice at the loss of their omniscient and wrathful god.