The revolutionaries of free soul

 

I think gypsies have been the real revolutionaries. They are the gutsy, untethered, itinerant, wind-led horses. A layered palette of defiance, dignity and romantic wildness, they have it in them to repel any comforting, collective cauterizing stamp of religion, race, ethnicity, nationality, locality or specific residence.

At great cost—which collective comfort zones provide—they have resisted the normal safe escape route of accepting a casting mould to become a civilized social product. The barefooted, borderless, inassimilable, irrepressible life enjoyed beyond fences. 

Tasting freedom almost like daily bread; their paths defying the urge to harden into roads; belonging nowhere; feeling at home everywhere; carrying joy in their exiled self; ever revolting against fixed addresses. The exilically roaming free-borns have been paying big price for their uncontained culture. Yet the settlers’ derision just sharpens their dignity.   

It’s a high-degree freedom—though coming at the price of social stigmas, denigration, ostracization and exploitation. But their vibrant off-beat colors are the epitome of an exotically un-established wandering tradition. As children of the wind, they embrace the horizon, not a particular shelter and roam on a broad platform surrounding the lean and scraggy linearity of the settlers’ way of life.

They have stoutly resisted the barbaric incursion of civilization into their tribe. They are like an unknown nihilist saying ‘yes’ to an exclusive yet elusive pattern of life.

Civilization—the staunch basher with its boring chameleon colors—has been feigning false victory by condemning their freedom as uncivilized foraying.

Against the exquisitely fine-proportioned façade of the world of the settlers, the gypsies roam with their wild lore. The settlers have a fenceless fury; the gypsies have untamed peace.

They are splendidly visualized elusive fragrance of mother nature. With their own lousy immediacy, they pass the settlements wrapped in their civilizational woes. They just pass with an exemplary emphasis of free will.

The desolate, all bleak settled world full of tense climax and taut excitement. Gypsyism, the unconditionally blooming rosebud tenderly curling around the settled world clogged with overflowing distortions.

The homeless tribes move with sweetly savoring perseverance by the side alleys avoiding the world gloomily radiating turbulence in all directions. Their undulating resonance has not allowed them to be caught in time’s creaky cobwebs as they break its scheduling net with weighty as well as soft silence.

These are spontaneous shuffling strokes, comically cute, hilariously exuberant, amorously amusing and bedazzingly idiosyncratic. A formless pulse smartly negotiating the stormy, mercurial forces. Pictorial and panoramic. A dynamic dimension having delicate brilliance. An exotic adventure. Radiantly rejoicing, dismissing the rewards of formal dignity. A kinetic metaphor for the eternal muse of the first cause, the primal fabricator of this worldliness.

The civilized world meanwhile watches in dissonance and desperation, all jumpy and cranky, shouting moralistic monologues. The gypsies just move with burgeoning exuberance and delicious drowsiness.