Born with a silver spoon on a brass platter, to a not so affluent merchant father and a theatre empress in the mid-20s and was named Socrates by the mother. Living in a rugged house of cobbled stones and a fireplace to sit by along the countryside with a courtyard for barbeque in the muddy bog, he grew up to become a wanderer. Playing with the pony and the cattle in the neighbor’s farm, he grew up thinking of vivid fantasies right from the farm to the lightning and thunder-struck stars across the galaxy, a billion light-years away. It was a satire for the merchant to look up his son grew like the Walter-Mitty living up in this world created by his very own imagination and dramatic thoughts. Sweats full of colorful dew drops in the playgrounds of water were his yard for leisure. He seemed to enjoy this way of being and living different fantasies.
Growing up as a vagrant, he knew nothing still venturing harder and faster to find out new hopes every day. Budding tall and husky with a muscular craving with the black beard and so-called an Arabic look, he charmed and blazed along the streets of the wonderland. Inspired by Hercules, the Roman god and a very own hero of the community, he protected and secluded the boulevard with his valor, hounding against the injustice. Liked by many and hated by plenty, Socrates was fearless and making his stand count. Yet, adored by the charming girls, he was just fascinated by a one with the green eyes. She, the chunky figured was with the smooth apparels and green eyes without a frown lured the Socrates more into the fantasy of the Elizabethan era when the Shakespeare was prominent. Climbing the uphill in the sunlit seasoned meadows with hands in hands was their routine with an eventual kiss in the midway. The green-eyed stirred him into the world of books and making his fantasies more flamboyant and lustrous. He became restless days after weeks and dreamt lucid and demanding to live in poles apart fantasies, from the Apollo Mission Spacecraft to the Nazi’s Bunker and flipside to the Aztec’s temples and a house on the Baker Street were now his new homes. Once known by no one but now is known by the beloved green-eyed.
The Arabic was no more a teenager and so were his fantasies. They grew once from the roots and now were the trees of Zeus. He craved and imagined more than ever before. He was a cerebral figure among the others yet too sluggish to do anything. Making him a bonehead yet that was an irony. Influenced by science, he flourished in his very own skills. Though, the university path was haunted to him and academics a nightmare thus lived one more fantasy. Tedium surrounded by boredom chased him on to the university grounds. Barely tolerate anymore with the skills of Da Vinci and the mind of the very individual Einstein he ventured into the unknowns like the Columbus in the wild fierce ocean to discover a fantasy far higher than the reality. Sailing the seas and drifting over the asphalt, he lurched towards the windy hills with his beloved getting old and grey. Still, he was restless like never before. Times flying, yet it was still tough for Socrates to cope up with the reality. With the advent of twilight, he learned something. The music connected him with his soul. Days passed and he learned piano and the santur and the violin. Fluent in music, he played and saw the rhyming notes flying all around his mind with a lit smoke and he thought of planets revolving in an elliptical fashion. He inspired the music to his beloved and became an ideal and enviable teacher for her.
Years passed and now in the new era, where there is always a concern for existence, Socrates did nothing but lived in a dissimilar world created by him. He saw a ray of hope for one more fantasy. He started writing miles and miles of pages of his philosophies and occurrence of living numerous fantasies every day. Old and grey, he started teaching children enthusiastically and creating Plato and then the Aristotle and indeed Alexander the Great once again in this modern era through his very own ideologies. In his later life, he lived like a monk to recognize the reality. On his deathbed, Socrates with gigantic white whiskers and beard with long hairs with the face full of wrinkles and a lean and feeble body, he was wiser than ever before like King Solomon. Not a moment of restlessness. Yet all alone as he realized everything was just a mere fantasy counting his green-eyed beloved. With a flash, Socrates was no more and all his fantasies nowhere to be found ever.
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