Jhender.com

The young one, who claimed not to be too young,
spoke of growing up, of remembering
growing up in classrooms and school uniforms,
of teenage friendships and puppy love.
She recounted dreams and hopes,
hopes too big and dreamy for adults to believe.
She pointed out friends that were best friends,
who she has since left, like how she
has outgrown her childhood,
and teenagehood too. She races
in blistering bewildering haste
as if impatient to catch up with me,
a good ten years ahead,
too many years to go, too many words to say.

The, for the lack of more distinctive
and less bitter irony, fat one
ranted against a perceived superiority-
derived inferiority complex,
flailing out against bullys and name-calling,
against stigmatisation and sterotyping.
He burns with a fervor stoked by a fierce
all-consuming inner fire,
wishing so hard to unleash the great fireball,
unaware that perhaps fanning these flames
will only burn his hollow self to ashes.

The innocent one, with the sugary plump cheeks
lovingly nurtured by cupcakes and ice cream,
describes cute furry creatures and colored rainbows.
She paints fairytales with her stubby fingers,
like Alice in Wonderland, feeling her way around
unsuspecting of magic teapots.

The thin one, he squirrels away in his square work cubicle,
shooting darting glances around as he scribbles
nervous rhetoric against the Establishment.
The cog and wheel in the Administration, he serves
but only grudgingly, being careful to blend
into the cubicles and template prose.
He holds his beer gingerly, quickly shifting words
around the table, making sure they don’t linger
for too long on his name.

The witch, with her photoshopped pastel face,
artificial eyelashes and mane hair that she uses
to hide behind, puts on her best accent and song,
speaking incomprehensible drivel, which
wouldn’t be half bad if it made more sense.

Superman, grins with a innocent boyish smile
that Clark Kent would be proud of.
He shows up in those loose collared long sleeves
that helps him fly faster than anybody,
leaving us behind in his smooth slick verses,
conjuring up magical worlds of delicate metaphors
intertwined in his contrails.
He describes to us heartwrenching civilisations
that he swoops in to save with his red cape;
cities infested with zombies, skyscraping prisons
of common folk.
He is the saviour of the night.

(inspired by Selwyn’s remark that the men are as rowdy as ever and a thought catalog post)

In no uncertain terms it was evident to us
That the battalion was as rowdy as before
The frivolous playful-ers, the uncouth hangabout-ers,
All hark back to an 8 year-old era of pre-adultlegal young men,
Entrapped in a unreal insignificant world of National Service that ran in a parallel universe to what is internally referred to as Civilian. For only the military would need to term the de facto in a name other than normal.
In this world the consequences did not matter, the responsibilities futile and unwanted,
the awards similarly vapish and uninspiring.
Behind guarded gates and obscured fences,
Bravado is valued over civility,
Sacrifice is recognised over dedication.
With outside eyes we view those who choose to remain inside with a confounded mixture of disdain, bewilderment and revulsion.
Even in Hell we are in it together,
And in our collective repulsed spirit we unite against our common enemy.
8 years on, we recognise each other by name, if not by face. It is a large family that has grudgingly been grouped together, and is fairly closed off to outsiders now. Each man has their place. Even high or low positions don’t matter a bit now. Nobody wants any position, nobody cares more than that. More work doesn’t bring more satisfaction or more worthwhile recognition.
You can bet that they are efficient, much more than anyone else can imagine.
You can trust that they will pull each other out of any mud,
and collectively resist interference.
It is like a steel so repeatedly tempered that it is so tough
And also no longer changeable.
There is no longer anything left to learn,
Everything is just a simple routine.
Forget drills, forget discipline,
Forget also regimentation.
We have figured what is necessary,
Mapped out the minimum path to it,
And will not budge now.
There are some men we would not care to dwell on,
The harshness of brotherhoods can be unforgiving.
I don’t know.
There are some places where,
When you are going to step out the door,
You cast your eye around for a final memory,
And there are some you don’t.