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B is for Experience


I have seen a hint of the danger. A smoke screen to the unimaginable. Some call it darkness. I call it Experience. And it is a teacher with a sharp tongue and an even more stinging wit.

I imagine it sitting in a corner, rocking in the shadows. Which is funny since Ex is old but not feeble. Still, it rocks. Waiting. Waiting for someone to whisper a plan over drinks or strap on their heels on the path. Then it rises to come forth. Guava whip in hand, just like Primary School days, to teach a lesson.

Ex… experience…  it doesn’t correct you just yet. You have to give the wrong answer first. Then comes the lash. And for every answer wrongfully delivered, another comes till you’re either sore or numbed.

Who is Experience’s Master? The Heaven? The Hell? You. You are Ex’s Master. It would have stayed there in its rocking chair had you not called it up. Like a medium, you control the Experience, though the pain tells you differently.

Soon you’ll be salved. The right answer comes and you are salved and saved. But experience leaves a scar on you and maybe, a limp.

As it returns to the shadows, to the chair, you smell the sulphur… you see the smoke.
Experience was here.

End.
February 9th, 2013

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