The storm - and the exile

Running fervently in what appeared to be a futile spiral path, the ant, blind as it is, was attempting to defy laws of physics in a bout with the never-ending wall. "How pitiful a predicament I've put you through little one, not unlike the turmoil I've faced," mumbled Aravind as he tightly held the ceramic bowl in place, trapping the innocent invertebrate scurrying on his table.

It had been weeks, perhaps months, since the yogi had last written. Looking out of his window, he couldn't help but wonder what drove his urge to write in the most trifling of occasions. Turning around, he faced the pile of brand new shirts he'd purchased, clearly satisfied with his selection of clothes at the summer sale on West Main. He stood up and walked towards the pile, watching the ant struggle towards the edge of the table and dive into a tiny niche of the window sill when he released his prisoner. As he began to fold his shirts and tuck them away in the closet, he thought he saw something move from the corner of his eye. Turning around, he stared into the face of a young man, who would have appeared to be in his late teens if not for the unkempt beard and protruding eye balls. The man wore a somber look, and his weary expression told the tale of an intractable past.

The yogi had not realized that the intense brooding over the upcoming months had reflected on his appearance. He walked away from the mirror, heedlessly throwing the last of the folded shirts onto the rack and slamming the closet door shut. The hap-hazard attempt at arranging his wardrobe didn't seem to bother him. "Why can't they all just tell me what to do instead of showering me with scraps of advice and leaving me clueless on the matter?"

Making a firm decision about the path he would take in his life was something Aravind was trying to evade ever since he was forced to choose. The doctor had recommended that he dedicate the first few years training himself in the art of machine and electronic design. Doing so would render him to be an indispensable tool for the federation. He would then have to resort to becoming a workaholic and a social servant; all hopes of leading a life of normalcy crumbling henceforth. His family and friends suggested otherwise, pressing that maintaining a balance between his duty to the federation and to himself was paramount. Everybody, including the yogi, knew that he would never tread the path of common folk, and had always aspired for a higher purpose. Why then was his mind in such torment?

Plunging into retrospection, the yogi realized that the life he led thus far was a perfect deviation from his long standing ambition. Cherishing his freedom from mandatory assignments and tests, and all the strings attached to them, he had been indulging in mundane activities which brought him nothing but short lived pleasure. Essentially, the yogi was getting accustomed to his newly acquired lifestyle, causing him immense displeasure at the thought of parting with it.

And then there was the girl; the women in his mind, her imaginary silhouette being the only proof of her existence. Every now and then, she would show herself teasingly, morphing into the most magical person he'd ever seen. Her enchanting face glowing in the twilight, and her silky black hair exuding the fragrance of pine and cherry blossom, she would sneak up behind him and whisper sweet nothings into his ear. She held an uncanny resemblance to several girls he knew or had seen before, and it seemed to him as though she was a supernatural being fabricated from bits and pieces of these personae.

And yet today, this women took the distinct figure of someone he knew dearly, someone who was far away in a distant land. What she had said troubled him, and although he would think about her or talk to her often, never until now did he have the desire to physically present himself in front of her and spill his heart out. Hot blood rushed to his face as he pictured himself telling her how he felt, proclaiming his undying love for her, and what she would make of it. The anxiety and confusion was slow poison to his heart, and he battled fervently to regain what composure he possessed but a few moments earlier.

After what felt like an eternity, the yogi drew his quill, and fighting his shaking hand, started writing.....for hours he poured his emotions and thoughts into his diary until he felt nothing but emptiness, as a lake drained of its water by the unforgiving sun; The yogi knew now why he needed to write; why it had to be done then, on that very day. The storm had cleared in his mind, and sent on exile were those thoughts that corrupted him.

....The yogi had made his choice.