The Agents of Change

Why does a man turn rebellious…clenching his fists at the heavens…at everything and everybody that come his way?
What does this man feel in his heart – what tumult? What emotional recoiling ensues?
What do his eyes manifest when he does what he does? What does his life signify in those fleeting moments of defiance?
Is fear a part of his mental frame when he charts his course to change? Is Change-for-better an ingredient of the result his efforts await?

History is burdened with the examples of people, worth-a-mention, who spearheaded revolts and mutinies and movements. Few led Revolutions. Fewer still, effected change-for the better. Transformation was always on their minds.

As I write this, I’m reminded of my dear friend, who generously shared his insight on True Rebels (I’d rather label them Revolutionaries for obvious reasons.)
Here it is, verbatim, “Rebels are inherently different. Wannabe rebels aren’t, they just act differently!”

True Rebels. Revolutionaries.
Everything that they touch which is weakly established, crumbles from within – without. Such is the power of their confident touch.
Every look of theirs incinerates all that is sacrilegious. Such is the fire in their vision.
Restoration follows them as though it has found its shepherd.
Transformation springs forth from them like cool waters squirting from a fountain long suppressed, at the mercy of the agents that bring famine, death with them.

True Rebels. Revolutionaries. Leaders.
Some are dead.
Some are long forgotten by those who followed.
Some – their names, once indelible, now lie obliterated in the deep, cavernous womb of history.

True Rebels. Revolutionaries. Leaders. Shepherds.
Many lead. But when they leave, they leave behind a void. No one to replace them.
Many more lead. Because stomach is their god. If the death bugle ever sounded, they’d be the last to make up their minds and take the plunge. They’d rather, throw their hands up and bargain with the angel of death.
Few give their lives away. Because for them, their sheep is not just that. Sheep. A rabble of wool.
They know each by name. True Shepherds.


As I write, I look around to see if there’s anyone who can stand up for The Change, the world so awaits, with bated breath…without batting an eyelid… with a fearful heart.
I find none.
None who can put his own priorities and goals to rest, and bring about this Change, the poets, down the centuries, have sung about; the artists have drawn about; the authors have written about; the philosophers have dreamt about…and the world now looks roundabout...
for The Agents of Change!

TM