The torn bag

The spacious apartment gave him more than all the pleasure he had ever wished for; it was more than he could take in his bag of desires; so the bag tore owing to the weight, and he could never have enough after that. Whatever he filled stayed for a moment and fell through. There was a loss of containment or contentment. He was left alone with his grief when he could not control his material longing, his hunger. It was worst when he could see everything happening to him and yet was not able to control it. He was possessed. It was just a matter of time when oblivion crept in and swallowed the jocund playfulness of the spirit. The carefree dancing of the spirit was suppressed and what remained of him now was a mechanical will-less corpse with a bridled vision of material prosperity that claimed to be alive. It was just a matter of time when what had begun as an unpleasant and unwanted infusion of ambitions transformed into a cold vengeance towards the world for the loss of the self. His laugh was now mocking but low, his eyes piercing but unblinking, his hands unwavering but cold, his movements unclumsy but without life. He was now a man devoid of his own will and slave to the society’s.