In the silence of dazzling midnight, escaping from the chaos of a third world order country. The place where crowds of lowest caliber hassle to fill in their tummies, where the strings of inapplicable restrictions sew the lips of about 90% of psychopathic lunatics, slumbering an aimless and useless life.
From the suburbs to the most eccentrics parts of the city, a wave of passion ascends slowly till the day, where it reaches its peak. With a few sizzling spikes on his head and driving like the Schumacher brothers, approaching the speed of light. He could feel hundreds of eyes catching a glimpse of his captivating Mercedes.
On occasions, he felt proud but most of the times, arrogant. It wasn't his fault at all because reasonably, his good times taught him this egocentric lesson. His wallet always remained full till the end of very month - the day that brought another ten thousand inflating Pak rupees to his pocket by his filthy dad, the most plushest guy he ever saw on the face of this planet. His mother, the most heedless creature, was a party animal. A mis timely trait that relocated into him - he was socially hyper. He was a cool, nasty, flirty bitch; in the circle of his friends. He loved to shine, to dominate, to crush, to roar, to win, to be the coolest emo in this universe.
He was an under-rated punk, with a rebellious guerrilla hidden under the scum. The Guerrilla like Castro, Zapata or Che Guevara that would fight against all for his personal rights and modern liberty. He believed in what he did and did what he believed - when depress he either would smoke up a few cigarettes or gulp a few sips of branded Sam Adams beer.
His secrets were even deeper and dark - but a piece of ordinary diary page in the eyes of the elite class, he lived in. For the last three months, he experienced a havoc seven break-ups; sometimes the girl was careless, sometimes he was casual, sometimes the thingie wasn't a masterpiece, sometimes the slut was a cheater or sometimes too childish or annoying. Doesn't matter to him - he was a wealthy heir, adorably cute that girls may talk about him for weeks, great masculine physique that made him bullying his fellow nerds with a threat of staging a public 'phadda', a chain smoker which would play the guitar not exactly but a lot like Slash. Twice a day, he would drive to the most expensive restaurant of the city and and overjoy by chawing the finest chicken steak or spare the dusk fogging out a chocolate flavored sheesha.
He was a branded man, wearing branded shoes, branded T-shirts, branded denim jeans that hung at the edge of his hips. He loved to make just about everything from his fuzzy brown hair, regularly an Afro or sometimes rarely a Mohawk - he didn't mind. All he wanted to achieve was some sort of distinction or greatness to immortalize his satisfaction.
For the last eighteen years of his newly ripen life, he did every thing to embellish his blurred path of life - a number of which the one of his age must have felt ashamed of doing of. It didn't mattered to him, the horse of his life raced blindly around the course of never-ending madness. He often agrees by nodding his head - he has drowned in the sea, sea that chymifies religiosity, devoutness and unearthliness. Oh! someday he'll find a way out - yeah! hopefully someday.
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