I woke up dreaming of music. A faint echo of the final chords, of the dream, fades within me. I feel old. I am suddenly afraid of the aloneness I trusted so dearly only yesterday. I try to squint and focus on the hue of brightness around me. I had fallen asleep under the table lamp. I realize morning would be a while.
In the windows there is no light
so I am sure waiting outside,
and trying to hide,
is the darkness of the night.
In search of lightness, I decide take a walk, watch the sunrise, run a few rounds… all these were plans of a cowardly self to escape an infinite solitude that was creeping in.
When I was young,
I whispered secrets to the winds.
beautiful melodies they composed,
never heard but forever sung.
When I was young, I whispered secrets to the wind. The winds composed their melodies from secrets, that dreamers like me have, confided in them. The winds have always carried melodies and played it for everyone, yet very few are aware of the elegant symphonies even the lightest breeze renders.
The winds carry secrets to far away lands, and over time the secrets grow into memories. The winds once carried their own secrets but over the years the heaviness of remembering one’s own past weighed them down. It is the winds that prayed for mankind to be given the gift of hearing. Why? because they were lonely as they sang their memories for millions of years. Although, heard by the trees and tiny forms of life. They longed not just to be heard but also to be understood. And that understanding they knew, could only come from a human soul.
On this cold December night, the winds found me walking on a solitary path. The trees close by had withdrawn into their silence and darkness. I knew I was cornered by the winds. The shadows were thick and dark, and so were the memories the winds ushered to me. I stood and listened in silence.
We are but beings of our own forgotten past. This remembrance of things past, awakened a sadness deep within. I was at a loss for thoughts. A resonance of unapproachable sorrow was felt within. This inner vortex of heaviness, suffering in the most innate form. It was there along with the silence of the trees and the path I was walking.
I felt sorry for all that within. The human condition, Dostoevsky called it. I felt a compassion for the human condition, my human condition, this constant undercurrent of turmoil within. And in the silence I was also able to sense the compassion, that this suffering we have built up within, was feeling toward us as well. Our vantage points though different, creates a movement that shall culminate in universal good. I was for a while, on this cold December morning, at peace with all within.
On this cold December morning,
I was for a while, at peace with all within.
I feel I have been a little uncharitable to the art of verse, during recent months. Yet I must not blame myself for greats things that have decided not to bless me with their presence. “Works of Art are of an infinite solitude”, any approach to understand their origin and their ways are useless. The works write themselves. I am but a mere scribe for these words. Words that are so delicate and the meaning which they point to ever obscure.