The white collar - his pinstripe suit tailored to his broad
figure, his shirt starched, his brogues gleaming - returned from his nine-to-five job.
He stepped in to find that his home had been robbed.
Silk wallpaper torn, the glass of pictures cracked, a sight
that almost made him drop.
Settled in a corner was a mob, he held onto it like it was
a staff, and thought of his God.
Could He really sanction such absurdity? Was a thought
beyond his ability to focus on for too long.
He stood there, rooted to the floor, remembering the
times when he still had more, before he’d walked in
through the door.
He was well-off, he was confident, clever, and never let
a droplet of alcohol touch his lips, or his nose catch the
wisps of smoke.
He was always handsomely attired, groomed, admired,
desired and scarcely ever tired before his head touched
the pillow.
A widow yet again allowed herself to feel the throbbing
stream of love and adolescent liveliness at his sight.
He was a man reputed to have found the true light, yet
now it seemed not so bright.
The white collar - trying not to faint - stood in the dim
hallway.
There was nothing to say to the remains of his wealth.
A neglected watch was left askew on the shoe rack - perhaps out of compassion - and he took it in his hand.
It ticked and breathed like a dying bird, and he pressed
his thumb against the thick glass, as if to feel some of its
waning life.
It cost him a fortune, it really has, yet even that futile
thing could not save a man returning home at dawn to
find he was left to die.
Thinking hurt,
Seeing the mess, the tumult and the damage hurt even
more.
It didn’t cross him that the burglar - though he doubted
this was the work of one person - could still be inside. In
the shadows.
The clock in his hand not abandoned, only as of yet unheeded.
But he didn’t flick the switch, didn’t take off his blazer,
nor did he open his eyes. He embraced his death.
His house was ransacked, his prosperity killed, and his
debts would arrive, unpaid, himself soon deemed bankrupt by the court. His image torn my the claws of the
tiger of fate.
No one in the firm he was part of would accept him, he
would be fired at once. Mister Jeffrey would be tact, gentle, but his phone-call would not save the white collar.
The clock in his hand wouldn’t save him too.
His starched shirt - now damp at the armpits -wouldn’t
save him, his suit would be - no matter what - stuck to
him like the drenched skin of a creature from hell, or an
angel from above. It would embrace him, he could cry,
scream or deteriorate, yet it would neither hate nor love.
He couldn’t believe it,
He begun laughing.
He had nothing, was nothing. He was free.
Feeling more alive than ever, he walked along the dark
hallway. He was happier than the whole organisation,
more free than the burglar or the burglars whom had
stripped him of meaning, more free than the preachers,
the scholars, the commoners. The aristocrats. They had
meaning, were fooled by meaning - he had nothing, was
fooled by nothing.
The idea of pressing the barrel of his souvenir rifle
against his temple and pulling the trigger didn’t seem so
bad - death wasn’t any less freeing than life, if not more
freeing - but he didn’t need suicide.
He found something by finding nothing.
Suppose that’s what the dead feel, he thought, and
walked, passed a few thresholds, darkness enveloping
him, until he reached the door to the backyard.
The double-glazed window was shattered - all the way
through - at the bottom left corner, near to where the
handle was so as to make access possible.
He didn’t doubt that each and every room was as bad
as the last - even the kitchen was weeping in its ruin,
silverware strewn on the granite floor, the appliances
scratched or battered or both. This was an act of hatred
and possibly envy, too.
This house had been treated with proprietorial ugliness
and recklessness. But he didn’t care anymore, it wasn’t
his house. It belonged to the mad.
He opened the door, left it to swing lazily in the dawn’s
breeze, and descended the flight of stairs.
He walked along the wet grass for awhile, admiring the
hidden crickets, the swarm of fireflies dancing in the
thickets, the howls of a distant dog, and the encouraging
whistles of its owner still believing that their home was
their own.
He smiled, he walked, and he watched.
He couldn’t help but to feel the disappointment sinking
in. The inevitable disappointment he sensed towards the
whole of humanity.
He too was disappointed in himself for being part of
it, but the disappointment wasn’t personal, aching or
intense. It was peaceful, quiet.
They had messed up good, there was so much proof
one didn’t need to find it. It was there already: In the
swooshes of a car, the rattles and whines of a sophisticated machine, the dead and ghastly faces of passers-by,
the bulky textbooks, the cunning commercials. . .
But that didn’t matter too, not as he walked and talked
to the creatures of the night.
He was ready to live for the first time in his life, to sleep
in the meadows, on the broad and long branches of giant
trees, or alongside a sunny brook. Nature his friend,
humanity too his friend, though avoided when it could
be helped.
* * *
On one stuffy and still evening, he has awakened to
the rustles of undergrowth, the subsequent flutters of
alarmed birds, and the quiet murmurs of voices.
A loincloth wrapped and knotted to his groin, he restrained from making any noise as he sat up, brushing
some dirt off of the side of his face.
‘You ain’t gonna shoot none if ya don’t hold your breath,
focus and stay patient.’ A grating, old voice said.
‘Okay, okay.’ Said another. This an indication of youth
and growing frustration. ‘God, can’t you let me learn.’
‘You ain’t gonna learn by making the same mistake over
and over again.’ Said the older voice. ‘And don’t talk to
me in that tone, son. Guys charge for such a service, I
don’t.’
‘You’re my dad.’
‘**** right.’
The rustles intensified. And through his bleary eyes -
crusted with sleep - he could see flickers of blues and
reds moving behind the greenery.
Perhaps he could’ve moved earlier, and hidden in a
place less exposed than this, though from the concise
conversation that had caught his ear, it was obvious that
whomever was approaching him was armed, and the tinniest of noises on his part could have deluded them into
thinking that an animal was nearby. In addition to this,
his tanned skin might - to them - appear to be the fur of
a deer when glimpsed through the undergrowth, and the
guy in the deep voice - the dad - might then be persuaded into wielding his rifle and demonstrating to his son
how a professional shoots down his prey.
Hence he just sat there, awaiting to be acknowledged
and hopefully unheeded.
There would be some odd looks, no doubt, but he wasn’t
the mad. He wasn’t the one holding a rifle in his hand,
teaching his son how to steal life, and - worse still - how
to get good at it.
Six months of living in the wilderness had taught him
more about life than his Marketing course had in Harvard. He begun seeing, hearing and feeling more. He
could detect a potential predator - though not always -
without even laying an eye on one. Likewise, if he’d been
awake a few moments before, he would’ve been aware
of the hunters’ impending arrival before they were even
within earshot.
He could’ve constructed himself a makeshift weapon,
but he didn’t need to. In fact, the hunters and their rifles
didn’t frighten him, if he was to be shot down mercilessly like a deer, so be it. Half a year ago he’d found liberty,
death didn’t scare him.
The older huntsman begun hushing and ticking his
tongue, making the rustles and footfalls cease.
‘Look son, see that thing moving over there?’ He whispered.
The boy cried in ecstasy: ‘Oh my-’
‘Hey. . .Shut up.’ The father reprimanded. ‘Ya wanna get a **** or not?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Go on, it’s hard to see it, but it’s there. Aim, hold your
breath, and shoot that thing down.’
‘Okay dad. . .’
He was - by the looks of it - to be shot after all.
He clasped his hands to his elbows, feeling the life underneath his skin, and straightened up his back, drawing
in a lungful of air, and blowing it out through his dishevelled growth of beard.
He meditated to the silence. To a bystander, such a silence might seem tense and wringing with suspense, but
for him it was still, spacious and pleasant, for tension
only existed when an occurrence was being anticipated,
he didn’t visualise the sharp bullet emerging out of the
rifle’s gaping mouth, black fumes encompassing it as
it darted through the air, nor did he try to imagine the
impact of the bullet as it ripped through his flesh and
muscle, the agony suffocating him like a thousand of
oceans. All he seen were the verdant bushes, the trees,
the drooping twigs or the moving colours coming to a
stop in front of him.
‘Shoot, son.’ The deep voice said urgently. ‘You’ll make
your father proud.’
‘What about mom?’
‘Shoot.’
The white collar didn’t hear anything, there was nothing
to hear. Nor did he feel, see or smell. He had almost felt
like he’d ever since the burglary, nonetheless now there
was nothing. He remained in that Nothing for eternity, a
void of absolute liberty everyone he’d ever beheld would
soon be part of. In fact, if Time was for a moment to be
overlooked, it is safe to say that everyone is part of this
void, everything that had - or will - ever live. Even the
kid and his irascible father whom had, on that stunning
evening, stumbled upon the white collar would soon  
return to this void. Up until now he was half-naked
and exposed, now he was what had been many times
throughout the history referred to as a ghost, a soul or
something akin, but its essence would only be marred
by such deceitful words, for it was ineffable, beyond
anything one could ever utter, read or hear of. Everyone
knew it, deep down, under the filth and grime of delusion and confusion. It was there, resting in its temporary
slumber, awaiting its awakening.
On that sunny and splendour evening, the white collar
had indeed been killed, and more injustice ensued from
this act of haste and carelessness as the father - his voice
higher than ever - knelt down before his son, grasped his
bonny shoulders and blurted into his face a plan conceived on spot. ‘No one can possibly be concerned about
this man’s death!’ Cried he to his son. ‘He is barely a
human being, the beggars we seen at the bazaar last
year were more human than this thing! Don’t ya dare
shed a tear!’ He slapped the boy in the face, bringing
some colour to the icy whiteness of it. ‘Don’t cry! You go
back along the path we’d walked. Here. . .’ He produced
a set of car keys and prodded the boy’s chest with them.
‘You get back into the car and wait. And never mention what’d happened here. Ever!’ He shook him. ‘It’s
too small to even be thought of! We’ll watch that movie
with the talking dog tonight, we’ll eat toffee popcorn,
we’ll drink what there’s to drink, we’ll tell your mother
that there was nothing to hunt, and will never ever go
hunting again. . .Go now, son.’.
The plan - as many do - had proved successful.
The white collar was shot down, his corpse thrown
down into some forgotten pit which was then topped
with twigs and foliage the father had cut off from the
many trees using his dagger. That was the plan, and he
was potentially correct when he said that no one would
shed a tear for him, the white collar had always been
glimpsed and admired for his charm and effort, but that
was back when he was just a living appliance, hence he
was by now most likely forgotten like a rusty tool lost in
a corner, and his disappearance probably linked to the
burglary, encouraging the police to believe that he was
murdered by someone out of spite or envy. But even if
whomever was responsible for the burglary had been
detected and lawfully jailed, they would only be charged
for that one crime, and so much puzzlement would then
arise as a dozen - or more - of minds would attempt to
discover the truth. What the hell happened after the
breaking-in? Where did the white collar go? Is he dead?
Was it due to accident, suicide or homicide?
Little did they know, he was where they too would once
rest.

What are we to do when the heart wanes within us?
The heart situated at the right, not left, side of our chest.
What are we to do when that heart of passion, of righteous childishness and inextricable source of creativity dies inside like a once brisk, healthy and vivid dove? What shall we as an individual do then?
At times, I am leaning over heaps of paper or the dazzling light of the monitor’s, all displaying to me a cluster of words and complex terms, and a sudden, abrupt, as stealthy and as cunning as a killer air comes about me, enveloping me as if my time has come.
A ball of tissue plugging my mouth, my screams.
An invisible sack draped round my head, and the platform forced to give in under my momentary weight
And then to sway sadly as I stared at it in disbelief and indignation, eyes bulging and feet groping in vain until I should, at last, gain the rest all humans are robbed of when born, but granted back when gone.
Then I can scarcely understand the words proclaiming importance, and stare at them as if already dead, stuck as if in an awkward moment wherein one is unfortunately sacrificed for the pleasure and confidence of the one whom ridicules them, indicating to their chums, to the curious bystanders, the fool they’ve targeted for the day, and beginning to eat you alive with their jeering remarks and guffaws like the fangs of a vicious wolf. I continue to stare, as I do in those moments of humiliation, at the heaps of paper, at the army of words, and feel my jaw slipping atop my palms until my dampened brow connects with the table and a temporary relief is lightened in my heart like a fire amidst a gale. Then it is killed, and the words insist on being read, threatening you like a battalion of enemy soldiers, their muzzles aimed at you like a watching eye, or the fascinated eyes of the bullies, the bystanders. The wolfs. And you see all of their ugly faces, coming to life in those papers, those words and those threats.
Though on those days, sometimes I find a flicker of hope, as only on days when I still find the self-confidence to resist those blankets of sleep, the rope of dread or the painful remarks, do I know there is still a person within me worth fighting for.

What do you do when you fall and fall, and the only thing making you fall is the dreadful stupid confounded rope that you yourself are tugging down?
How do you get up when you’re too focused on trying to get up by sitting down?
And are you considered mad for trying to go down a path that is incompatible with the destination you’re hoping to reach?
Are then, we all mad?
Is to be human, to be hungry for  the unattainable, for the unnecessary, simply mad?
But then, what if one doesn’t wish to be mad? Does that make them even more mad for trying to achieve the unattainable?
Are we all just stuck in an encompassing mist of desire, of self-loathing, of greed, of resentment, of anxiety and of melancholy?
Why do I try to be someone?
Why can’t I be me?
Isn’t this very act just a slow, subtle suicide?
Aren’t you then just trying to die and hopefully reincarnate as some you think you would want to be?
Are we all just insane, starving and hateful specie slowly trying to die? And as a result we cause others to die too?
Was the World War just a different way of us being able to die and simultaneously make others die?
Are we born with the goal to die, whether by suicide or by an unfortunate accident?
Where the hell is life in this?
Why wasn’t this specie also taught how to live, why is it only the creatures we foolishly pity that are the happiest, and us the saddest and most hopeless, so dark and in essence unhappy that we’re merely a shadow tarnishing this vivid, beautiful world.
We’ve came here and thought that changing it was necessary, so we are clearly mad.
And maybe the whole process that we have thus far made is the far more biblical act of digging ourselves - humanity’s - own grave.
No plant, no blade of grass, multitude of birds, swallows, Mockingbirds, gulls and woodpeckers, or trees and the waves of the immense sea, had ever thought the world as unjust, wicked or flawed, and then humans evolve, and suddenly there are so many problems.
Isn’t it almost logical, then, to make the conclusion that we are the problem?
That, being the only favour we can give to the world we have mistakenly believed to have conquered, we must therefore perish for once and forever?

Doesn’t it sick you that money is the apex of our world, rather than people or good? Those people who possess a sufficient amount of authority and - for that matter - vile in them, would replace you for a sum of bucks if they could within the snap of their fingers? Doesn’t that appal you, doesn’t it make you want to be swallowed by the floor and to submerge into a completely different world, one with different people, different concerns, different moral standards in which no money quite exists or, more realistically, at least doesn’t own the most priority in many of the individual’s eyes? If you have not ever sensed the pressure of disappointment bubbling up within you at the glimpse of what the world has become, or if you have never had the back of your hair raise up in dismay as you become enlightened with the horrible facts about this world called Earth, or not the planet, but the cruel people that inhabit it? If you haven’t, perhaps you are one of them, or perhaps you are just not in the mood to face the crude truth, and for that, I do not blame you, nonetheless, I wish that all those people greedy for wads of green paper could as well not care for all the luxuriates that will never make one truly happy. For pleasure is not, and will never transcend true joy, pleasure is temporary, often easy to achieve which almost always comes with consequences such as the harm of others, pleasure lasts then goes, leaving the person the same as they were previously before they had stooped down to the participation in quick pleasure which is exactly what the name says. If one cannot sense pure happiness, pleasure-evoking activities or luxuries such as a lavish apartment or an imposing smartphone device will not grant them it, it will simply blind them for awhile with a feeling they may misperceive as joy and then will leave. Taking this notion of, pleasure varying tremendously with joy, one should never feel envy to those with big homes and crammed wallets, as one can be far happier than them with not an awing amount of cash on their bank account, all you need is food, water and shelter, of course, ambition and a goal that one can check on once in a while to ascertain themselves that they are living up to your real potential will serve as extreme help, in fact, ambition is what keeps one going, the money will not. Pleasure is not bad at all, but using pleasure as hope for joy can be as because it lasts for a short period of time, after its absence one will strive to get the high back which can lead them to do absurd things, such as wasting money, little do those people know, all it takes to be happy is to accept yourself and accept growth and development which, in contrary, will take effort. Now, more than ever, it is time for those whom only perceive a good future with the possession of money to open their eyes, as pleasure sometimes serves to form a monster who only sees their treasure.