Bete Noire

Fervently Written on June 21, 2010

Its glittering back, a glossy charcoal belted with a strip of silver sheet, was facing down. Like a grotesque suicide, it was cautiously skirted with several glimpse of distaste.

It is silent. I made it so. I never stared at it long enough to chance it flashing.

For a much glorified thing of today, it is overrated.

It is defined by its usefulness, (though I think Robinson Crusoe would beg to differ).
It is a friend to the companion-less, a companion to the lonely.
It is the mouth of lies, of shame and of debauchery.
It is feeds on desire, on infatuation and on lust.
Like a hooker, the more you pay for it, the more pleasurable it is. (No money, no talk)

For me, it is just a tax collector and I’m the downtrodden serf who can’t pay the tax.

As I lie on my bed, staring at its dormant form, it crosses me that I can live without it. Because once it awakens, all blaring and bright, the news it brings anchors me to reality – that dreadful world mired in responsibilities.

Cellphone, my beta noire.


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