Piranha, piranha!!

We live in a fishbowl. There is no salt in our water. All it has, is a smell. A horrid lingering smell.

There are hours when we sit by ourselves, in our private selves.. pulling our shadows closer, and head lower. In darkness. In gloom. The eyes are arrested, the mouth disengaged. There could be rain dripping off the leaves on the tree outside, or a radio struggling to catch a station.. the poster could be crying out its color, or the balcony rails bathing with the bare roads. But we register nothing. We live in a fishbowl.

Bone, tissue and darkness. Affronted.. in a state of dismay and tragedy. Debates lying pointless in the corner, sordid credos lifeless and submitted, all of civilization, naked and lined up against the wall.. gagged and muted. Uncolored and miniaturized.

When naivete is murdered in a lightless room of conscripted smugness, where no one but us stand in its attendance, witnessing a service drafted in allotment. Like prisoners to sanity, we watch.. in mourning, in daze. There is no blood, no skin, no carcass. Just a lynch, a death, a winterkill.

We reach for our shadows and cast them out long. Wrapped in piteous euphony, we call out to the hammer blows at the side. We run. We flee. We scamble. We, hit the wall. We fall.

We live in a fishbowl.

An hour later, may be two.. we wake up. The blood had rushed back to our heads, and the feet walk both ways. We look up when asked, 'that was a good movie, uh?' and nod.

But we know, we live..