The Death of Mr. Sins

For a long, long time, Mr. Sins stared, at nothing in particular.

He had begun the year in spectacular fashion. For a full two months he had continued, day after day, visualizing the time when he would be frolicking along a quaint coastal bed, hand in hand with the partner of his dreams. Three days into the beginning of March, he felt like relapsing. He became aware of himself relapsing, and he had let himself to, much to his dismay, in spite of all the times he had spent writing down why he needed to moderate himself, have ounces of self-control and not let himself be.

But sometimes, he did want to let himself be, wallow around in an auto-pilot mode, altering his mental states as much as possible, yet continue to function as a responsible member of society, although he had no clue what a responsible citizen was. Who really cared about all the billions who existed in the world, as long as that individual’s and his social, family circle’s needs were met? How could any person or persons in the world truly understand what was going on, when billions of humans, with different physical and mental make-ups, went on and on about their thoughts and beliefs, gleaned and harvested from whoever cared where from?

Would Mr. Sins always remain in his chosen cocoon of thoughts, beliefs and actions, or would he rise above them, deliberately, intent on choosing his thoughts, beliefs and actions for himself, with the mindset of someone who knew what he wanted to be? Could such a course of action possibly exist? What was really true in the world anymore? When a sane person sits down to introspect, plot and understand all the systems and its people that were responsible to facilitate the well-being of as many people as possible, what does the person think when his or her expectations are not being met? Is this person even aware?

Mr. Sins closed his eyes, intently focusing on his breath, sensing the gentle air ripple past his nostrils into his wind pipe and back out again, feeling much calmer as the seconds passed, imagining a single point of being inside the deepest crevices of his mind, almost as if it was a living entity, regulating and ensuring that his body’s systems remained in balance. Gone were the thoughts about complexity, to be replaced with a sense of serenity, content in the feeling that he ought to do whatever he thought, assuming that his course of action would be ensured by fate. Who even knew what fate was? His duty was to flow.

Sins’ thoughts turned again. Like always.

He wished he could be in control of them. Some of the thoughts were not good at all. They involved violence and other acts of depravity, an ode to all the circumstances in which he had found them, crawling on the vast highways of the internet, shepherded further by compatriots and communities. Not that he held anything against his compatriots, rather he was quite happy with them. If not for them, he would have no outlets to sink his thoughts, no matter how masked they were. For a sudden moment, he imagined all sorts of human beings, wearing their respective masks, changing them as per the required situation. He solemnly swore he would he would never change his mask. He wondered how his mask looked. Did he even have a mask?

For all the times, he was sure, that his chosen mask was the mask of silence.

He remembered moments when he had not spoken at all. And he did not understand why. Did he feel he was above the talks being dished out in front of him, irrespective of them being personal or professional? Maybe, it was simply because of a lack of social interaction, a sort of vicious circle whereby each interaction, shaped and fashioned the next. Maybe, life itself sought to put human beings in a bubble of thoughts, beliefs and actions, until and unless the human being in question, decided to prick the bubbles, and move towards converging all the said bubbles. But then, maybe the person only entered a bigger bubble, only to keep bursting bubbles until he or she could just be and focus on the pleasure of life, without a thought about life’s necessities.

So thinking, Mr. Sins felt the familiar incoming rush of images. The images were slightly different now, but most of them were the same, a mix of the women he liked, a few choice scenarios of himself addressing a gathering and running helter-skelter amongst a group of people, slashing at them with a machete, while laughing at them madly. Sins laughed, watching the images flow away, to be replaced by others. After watching brawls, murders, sex and mind-altering substances of all kinds, Sins closed his eyes again. He wanted to change, desperately.

Mr. Sins was dead. From now on, he was Mr. Well.

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