Digital Delusions

He sits in the chair partly incapacitated due to his age. I can imagine him sitting at his balcony and picturing the birds and the very few people meandering through the roads below as purposeful. He is not sure of his digital camera...but then he just knew that ways of buying and selling were the same and hence he bought it..his veins know the slight pain and clot they have to adhere along to help him take it near to his eyes...He sits in a cold chair heated by the heaters...he sits along the balcony...maybe a little behind and more ahead. I cannot see him and i haven't but i would certainly like to.

After clicking the pictures he places the camera and looks into the shots taken. He has shot many times...he had shot at flying birds like he was doing now and he did not like taking pictures of people...he never shot at people as he had done that many times...
The air gains weight with its numbness and a cold more colder seeps around him. He is used to that...There is not much of a sun shining, just enough to give hope. He might be a bit numb to hope by now.

Yes he is the old man, the left overs of mighty ruins. He is a soldier of his leader alike to the footmen of Ozymandias.
He is someone who walked the long miles in frost and of Frost.
He is someone with a metal plate in his head.

The delusions of WW1 and WW2 are with him now...they had been submerged and dissolved in the ever running moments of time, experience and people. They submerged in the peace after, in the economy after, in the comforts after. But they always came up when there was silence, and silence is eternal...it is the foundation...a necessity for any sound to exist.

Silence identifies Sound.

And now when that silence resurfaces...he is in many delusions as there are noises and images in his head. Only for his head.
And just like wines get better under earth, silence becomes cancerous under head. Imaginations get skewed, many colored glasses gain priority...and when he finds a head without a metal plate, a head with out inorganic screws, a head without delusions, he pukes...
He pukes it to the very earth that gave him, to the very nation that grew him up amongst the snow, shine and beer.
His eyes become clear. He takes his camera and he shoots at the birds again and he is not unhappy.
He sees the bird once more as it still stands and hasn't been fell...the wrinkles adjust enough for a smile on his face
He looks at his camera...he does not have to load the trigger...it was automatic...
Maybe he fears of the coming years...but he is imprisoned and more safe than any birds in his own delusions...
And when he has more of them...he just pukes

He pukes in Bavaria, Germany