Rogue lifestyles, rogue music. Unkempt hair, faded jeans, ripped t-shirts. Lying on bed, cigarette dangling between the fingers of the hand that swings from the bed. Inches from the ashtray that sits between haphazard attempts at cigarette stubbing. A rangoli of sorts. Of sorts. Sometimes a makeshift ashtray. A bowl ingeniously filled with some water so the ash doesn't fly around the room in tune with the fan that’s lumbering along on the ceiling. Scoundrels. Even in their self-induced stupor they won’t let it dance. Prohibitionists in their own right. Leaning so far toward the left that they seem to teeter on the edge. The edge of balance. Tantalizingly close to imbalance.
Soot stained walls from repeated lighting of oil lamps. Ah! The soothing effect of dim lights on alcohol sodden minds. Loud music playing somewhere in the background. Well, if anything loud can really be in the background, that is. Loud sounds – bearable, bright lights – aaaarrrrgggghhhhh!!! Mega-treble reducing the lyrics to incoherent babble. That’s how they like it. Words drowned in louder sounds. Words, mere echoes in the din from slash guitars, synthesizers and drums. They dabble with babble.
Someone attempts at starting a conversation. Something along the lines of the great unanswerable existential dilemma “to be or not to be”. Empty gazes, blank stares and disjointed grunts are all the answers that come forth. Attempt promptly abandoned.
We hear of counter cultures. This is ours. Drug-induced stupor. Our answer to the problems of the world. Gone are the days of revolutions and mass upheavals. We will fight hypocrisy and the complete breakdown of democratic machinery with flights of fantasy. They say the mind is a powerful weapon. We know. Because we use it. Ours is an anarchy of the mind. So long as we can manage to step away from the ritual mundane ness of the world, all is good. Or let me rephrase that. ‘It’s all goooooood, man!’ Defunct systems be damned.
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