Forever

So many things. So many things. Deep within this whirlwind, there is always this central calm. They worship this thing. This thing they cannot name, cannot feel, and cannot touch. This thing that is too pure for them to approach and they shield their weak eyes against its blinding glare. Its happy, this thing. The naked ones play with it, jumping around it for it is their home. They're unaware of the lookers-on, for they're surrounded by the light and gurgle at each other happily everytime one of them shows off another trick. The raw ones keep catching glimpses of them dancing inside, and they grin at their glee and weave the whirlpool closely around. They extend their hands to the timid ones further away; they're afraid, and need encouragement. Some of the timid ones suddenly turn weak and greedily shove their hands into the light. They're immediately thrown back, they cry in agony and join the wretched ones who cry unhappily at what they've lost. The fair ones keep walking impatiently in concentric circles waiting for a chance. They perform complicated calculations, rub vigorously at the one error that seems to undo all their previous maneouvres and put their heads together to come up with new and fast ways to work towards an end they cannot want. A few lie unaware; the wind is a constant occurence, and they don't seem to notice it too much. They're happy; they've learnt to play poker well and laugh at each other every time one of them fouls up. They're well in their own world now to notice when the wind picks up or dies down, when the light shines brighter than it ever did before and beckons them in a momentary glimmer. They play poker well, and they're happy, and it is good. Because they're satisfied, and isn't that ultimately what all of us are striving for? Today there are newer ones, they dance with timid ones, yet look down at them with the strongest of contempt the minute their backs are turned. They drink to the health of the poker players, lech at the timid ones and encourage the futile attempts of the fair ones while bating their breath everytime they shade their eyes towards the light. Sometimes the whirlwind stops, everything gets rattled; the fair ones seem to slide towards one end, along with their chalk dusters and slates. They cling on to the surprisingly stationary timid ones, and the moment the wind sets to normal, they shudder when they see who they've been clutching and let go and abruptly scramble to collect their scattered pencils. The poker players, momentarily disturbed, look up, and then go back to their game. Very rarely one of them get up to ask for a light from one of the raw ones, and don't come back. The raw ones are proud and also somewhere scared. Scared to become one of them. And they ultimately do become one of them if they're weak enough to tremble at the possibility. The wind goes on howling and sometimes things change. But its rare when the wind actually stops. A hush falls then, and depending on what happens, the wind howls or moans.