It is an ancient land. Rules are quite simple - The strong wins and the weak dies a.k.a "Survival if the fittest". There is competition among the hungry carnivores. Competition over meager ounces flesh available across the oasis of Kalahari. The land where the sun throws fire over scorched sands while the carnivores make run towards the puny rabbit. The long and tiring run beats drums in the carnivores ears. There are parallel tracks of foot-beats pounding causing the desert to sweat dust in the wake of the running creatures.
The carnivores' eyes are yellow with a fathomless slit of a pupil. A millionth seconds glance shows flashes of anxiety, greed, a life's purpose to run faster even while the blisters break to bleed new drops of blood that quietly dissipate into nothingness drawing nobody's attention. They run with mouth's open and their teeth sharp biting the dusty air.
There are others running around. There is no sense to sight a glance at others, nothing theatrical there, its the most primitive of games in the barren fields. One of the carnivores shall feed on the flesh while others shall watch and gnarl. One shall wear the crown of victory and slumber in satisfaction while others shall wail and curse. So the carnivores run, ready to pounce on the flesh or anything else that may come in their way.
The flight of the carnivores is no merry time for friends or family. Its the time in the wild - the rule of ruthlessness, the kingdom of competition. May friends be, or family, in the run - the transcendence is only to raw primitiveness.
No comments:
Post a Comment