Inject

She held the needle on my arm, creating a depression that concentrated my fear to that one spot where the tip was ready to dig into my flesh.

She held the needle of power, the power that glistened in the circumference of the steel.

She held my life, not because that needle was supplied with poison.

No, fear of death is merely fear.

It is fear that is death itself.

And the only fear one must live in is the fear of fear.

Paradox?

Inject.

Of Hope

I cried and gathered my tears in my palm.

I stared at them and wondered what to make of them.

I just sat. And stared.

And stared. And stared.

Till that one day, when they crystallized into shiny little objects of hope.

Perfection

I took a sheet of rubber and painted the world on it.

The perfect trees with streamlined leaves,

The perfect hills, with daffodils,

A perfect view with an orange hue,

Just the perfect life with a comely wife.

And then I stretched the rubber from either side.

What seemed perfect dissipated into elongated nonsense.

The leaves became branches,

The orange got jaundiced,

And my wife grew fat.

And yet, I was happier.

Because I had stretched it to the limit.

This is perfection for me.