Thursday, 4 July 2013

Thought Picnic: Travellers of a blood cult

Strangers as friends
We all sat in the waiting room brought together by the randomness that accompanies passengers about to board a flight.
One fiddled, the other fidgeted, then the curse of modern gadgetry had others communicating with the world on the lifelessness of their smartphones, tapping, stroking and touching to while the long minutes that made the hour stretch into a day.
Brought together by a pestilence that had found a home in our plasma, squatting with the bearing of a landlord that we the host could barely eject the nuisance.
Our common stories
Our law enforcement being the pills we popped daily and the drugs injected to keep body and soul together, we are not planning to give in without a good fight.
Our common affliction left each one to his or her own, each a world of one hoping to be a universe of one oblivious of others as if we were secretly gathered not to recognise we all shared it.
None came with friend and none left with foe, our bloody secrets laid bare before strangers who could read the encrypted details of our lifelines like an open book hung in the town square that the blind could read.
Cult travellers
Yet, in a database with all our identities and details almost too intimate to share but for our circumstances lay the history of the world, diagnosis, disease, prophylaxis, therapeutics, prognosis, referral and conclusion.
And a name was called, someone rose answering to it to speak, to hear, to be pricked, to be prodded, to appreciate but maybe not to understand that each bit of news confirmed our vulnerability and ensured our mortality

We are travellers of a silent but encompassing blood cult, our very existence governed by the stories of the adventures of pathogens in the meandering wilderness or arteries and veins.

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