Gusts of wind momentarily wake me up from a prolonged trance. The mist in my eyes clears up and the clouds in my mind get pushed into a dark corner as consciousness awakens. I find myself careening into the blaring sirens of an oncoming truck. I suddenly yank the steering wheel to my right, dragging the car along. It took me a few moments to realize the event that transpired before. I tried to recollect the reason why I had lost attention to the winding road but could not do so. I was shaken, but when I thought about the reason for my trepidation, it was not because I almost crashed head first into another car potentially killing myself, but rather due to not being able to re-immerse myself into my day dream.
As I drive through valleys of paths uncharted and clogged with the flooding waters of a virulent spring, I look out of my windshield. Rainwater splashes on it but is quickly cleaned away by the wiper set to the motions of a low intensity. The splashes of a few drops fall onto it, stay there for a nervous duration and then multiply in their intensity, several others join in, as if magically born like weeds on an agrarian lawn. They continue splashing and trickling onto my peripheral vision until they succeed in completely blinding my sight. The scene that I see is not unknown to me. It is a blurred view of life, objects appear expanded beyond recognition and tiny spots of light appear almost ominously gigantic. The scene reminds me of the many day dreams that I have been experiencing for the recent few years of my life. Suddenly the wiper awakens and in a majestic swipe reminiscent of the stalwart swords of the knights of middle Ages swinging away at the millions of rain drops from my vision. Reality awakens me yet again. The mind suddenly found asunder in its naked actuality that suddenly is exposed to the existence of the world. I increase the intensity of the knight of the raindrops. Tonight will be a night where the sword will defeat the water.
The sky is tinged with incredible colors; there is sepia seeping into blackness which it drenched in a crimson elegance. The pale gray of the evening hour tries its best not to be replaced by the darkness of the pouring rain but is fruitless. The sky is also a mute witness, like me it is also not in control of its destiny. Its cloak like existence over countless of lives is ironic because the sky does not control its own. It follows a path, of dawning light and dusky nights. It continues in such a mundane routine barring nights like these where it sees a sudden burst of activity. But all of this does not add to its continuation. The sky delights in its embrace of a mundane melancholy and the recent festival like fervor does not feel characteristic of its expanse. As I drive away to the familiar confines of a comfortable home, the sky looks back in discomfort and defeat.
As I pull up into my driveway, I notice the absence of reality around. All those who surround scatter away like ants running away into their hole. There is a dearth of familiarity around and suddenly I feel almost alone in the vast expanse of the sprawling city.
I turn the car off and sit in silence. The storm lashes at the roof of the car intently as if taking my staying inside as a challenge to its might. I exhale coldly, the sound of my breath almost seeming alien to me. I still could not recollect the day dream felt earlier and yet there was a change in me. It was almost like the dream had awakened me to realities hitherto not felt but the absence of its recollection had suddenly trust me back into the confines of a dungeon that was desolate and unnerving. It was calming, sitting inside a metallic box twisted into the shape of a car. It was almost therapeutic in the sense that incongruously the storm comforted me. It seemed to match the state of my mind. The empty expanse of the world and the vacant gaze of the drenched trees match the vacancy in my mind. I feel strangely uninhabited, unaware of my own existence. I look around towards the lawn at nothing in particular noticing a couple of scurrying rabbits. Rabbits on my lawn, strange visitors to an unfamiliar house. I wonder at their lives and ponder upon the complexities of their existence. If my existence is so turbulent, I wonder if rabbit life is calmer. Not expectantly. Lately, the world seems to match my meandering existence. We are all unsatisfied and uncomforted and acutely aware of something missing. The feeling of emptiness felt within the mesh of bones surrounding my ribcage is too omnipresent. I cannot possibly be solitary in this trial. I look up at the sky trying to find the familiar gray seen before but could not. The sky was dark, the gray replaced by a very murky crimson. The hour was late and the sky was defeated against the force of the storm. I get out of the car and proceed inwards. The perpetual battle with bleakness will continue in the shelter of this house. It will continue but unlike most battles, there will be no victor. The storm continued unabated all night, millions of raindrops fell and were soaked up by the thirsty soil. There was something that was lost between the silky dawn and the shattering dusk but I could not define it, maybe I never possessed it in the first place.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Unpredictable Stagnancy
The ever grinding wheels of life bring forth many destinations and scenarios. Some carry a visual splendor, an image that elevates the experience of viewing it into a pious feeling, and some push you into the depth of decrepitude, function as shattering place markers in our shallow lives. The events that have led my life to this point, do not transcribe to either. Sure, I have had the fortune of living moments of elation and I have had moments of despair. But these moments function in a fragmented fashion, they act as spices, sprinkled over a larger entity, some spices carry a tantalizing taste and some are not so pleasant, but at the end of the day, the spice of life is essential a ‘spice’ the real flavor of life is found in our monotony and our daily rigors of existence. Our life.
Lately however, I find myself questioning the meaning of the direction that life has been taking. There is an air of unpredictability albeit a sense of stagnancy about that has stalled movement. Heavy words aren’t they. Do I even understand them, I wonder. Let me deconstruct it, break myself down, strip my flesh out layer by layer and muscle by muscle and understand who is it that I am and what is it that I would have liked to accomplish and how is life stopping me from doing so. A sense of unpredictability. Yes, that is easy. The past 21 days have been exactly that. They have been a roller coaster of emotions, the highs of elations balanced by the pits of despair, moments spent in sweet happiness rejoicing over the sound of someone breathing and moments of despair over the same sounds of breathing.
The human heart is a victim of a fabric of association, we associate feelings with people who are associated with us and latch onto them for comfort. These people may not necessarily do much for us, but exist in a fallacy bound by a sequestered tradition that festoons and wraps around the vessels that carry blood to organs strange and undefined. They give us comfort in their existence. My grandmother is one such person. A frail woman of 73 years old, she has withered harshness in life and has withstood seasons and geographical dislocations. She has recovered and survived cancer and poverty. She has lived in misery but never lost her pride in her family. She imparted values onto her children and govern her house on her own terms in a society that does not let a woman do that. Her lack of education, itself a result of a forced marriage did not make her limp, but almost acted as a buoy, made her steely resolve stronger, she made sure her children got the best education. She wasn’t always successful at this, because resolve and tradition are two mortal enemies. The strongest of resolve finds itself crumbling in alacrity in the face of tradition. But still she did not give up. She sold her earthly possessions, in order to get money to feed her children. She started trading traditional Indian clothes, almost becoming a buffer between the merchant and displaced friends and family members. Not a year went by where she did not carry a large suitcase filled with clothes, ready to sell them to whoever showed interest. She tried.
And now, after 73 years of relentless fighting for every single thing in life, she finds herself failing to the most unexpected of foes, her own body. She finds her senses failing her, basic needs going unaware and left to be taken care of by watchful eyes of her family and the workers of medicine. She fights a battle but it seems careening on a cliff that is abysmal in its height. This is where the unpredictability comes in. The greatest inheritance that my grandmother has is her family. A watchful, opinionated set of children who fight often but love their mother without precondition. These guardians have had a harrowing few days and watching them has been difficult for me as well. We find ourselves latching onto any good news and erupting in a guarded hope, hope that lasts for days few but then is trust into darkness again. A few days of good heath displayed by grandma is matched by a couple of days of bleakness, the ominous knot in the stomach with an underlying feeling that despair is around the corner. Unpredictability.
Now where does stagnancy come in? Well, unpredictability itself has become stagnant. The ever twisted river of life has stagnated itself into delivering news of melancholy. There is a defeated air around. My mother is depressed. She finds stagnancy in her efforts to revive her mother. She spends sleepless nights with a watchful eye over grandma hoping that her condition does not deteriorate. She is unprepared for the eventual moment but in an almost surreal manner is aware about it. She has not found acceptance. My mother has not given up. But she has tired of the stagnancy of despair and has tired of the familiar seesaw of our lives.
Families give comfort to each other and act as blankets of reassurance. They shelter us from the storms of worry and give us warmth in indemnity. Often nameless wanderers rediscover a forgotten family and are suddenly brimming with happiness, rejoicing at the one person who cares for them. Within each family however are people who are called guardians. These are the leaders who guide the ship and work towards steering everyone towards a better future and preserving unity. My mother is that guardian. People often ask me about my childhood in passing muster. They do not ask with interest but they ask with a disenchanted interest. Why is it that I talk more about my mother and seldom about my father, they ask. Truly, why do I?
When I look back at my life and recollect all the memories and experiences, I am momentarily frozen. The familiar image of a misty world suddenly springs in front of me. Our lives in dilapidated homes made with red brick and built with a cubical aesthetic suddenly appear before my eyes. I remember all the struggles I have had, with studies, with emaciation, with eccentricity and I am suddenly aware of an undeniable fact, I do not see my father in any of those images. The ubiquitous presence is one of my mother. She finds herself at all events, happy and miserable. She is the guardian of my family of 5. She has relentlessly fought for us her entire existence with almost a maniacal intensity. She thrives in her duty and his guarding of her children with almost a ravenous passion.
Today when I see her physically detest the thought of spending another night in worry at the hospital, I find myself feeling helpless at her helplessness. I am not as upset about my grandmother because I understand that the human body is not immortal, it is a timid branch of a massive tree, if one branch breaks and falls down, the tree will continue in its expansive growth. I am upset at not being able to comfort my mother. I find my purpose and my fabric within my family devoid of meaning. What is my worth when I cannot even comfort my own mother? The wheels of life have indeed stagnated. My existence is mired in immobility. I am the soundless and faceless man, screaming in a sea of nothingness, does anyone hear me? Does anyone…
Lately however, I find myself questioning the meaning of the direction that life has been taking. There is an air of unpredictability albeit a sense of stagnancy about that has stalled movement. Heavy words aren’t they. Do I even understand them, I wonder. Let me deconstruct it, break myself down, strip my flesh out layer by layer and muscle by muscle and understand who is it that I am and what is it that I would have liked to accomplish and how is life stopping me from doing so. A sense of unpredictability. Yes, that is easy. The past 21 days have been exactly that. They have been a roller coaster of emotions, the highs of elations balanced by the pits of despair, moments spent in sweet happiness rejoicing over the sound of someone breathing and moments of despair over the same sounds of breathing.
The human heart is a victim of a fabric of association, we associate feelings with people who are associated with us and latch onto them for comfort. These people may not necessarily do much for us, but exist in a fallacy bound by a sequestered tradition that festoons and wraps around the vessels that carry blood to organs strange and undefined. They give us comfort in their existence. My grandmother is one such person. A frail woman of 73 years old, she has withered harshness in life and has withstood seasons and geographical dislocations. She has recovered and survived cancer and poverty. She has lived in misery but never lost her pride in her family. She imparted values onto her children and govern her house on her own terms in a society that does not let a woman do that. Her lack of education, itself a result of a forced marriage did not make her limp, but almost acted as a buoy, made her steely resolve stronger, she made sure her children got the best education. She wasn’t always successful at this, because resolve and tradition are two mortal enemies. The strongest of resolve finds itself crumbling in alacrity in the face of tradition. But still she did not give up. She sold her earthly possessions, in order to get money to feed her children. She started trading traditional Indian clothes, almost becoming a buffer between the merchant and displaced friends and family members. Not a year went by where she did not carry a large suitcase filled with clothes, ready to sell them to whoever showed interest. She tried.
And now, after 73 years of relentless fighting for every single thing in life, she finds herself failing to the most unexpected of foes, her own body. She finds her senses failing her, basic needs going unaware and left to be taken care of by watchful eyes of her family and the workers of medicine. She fights a battle but it seems careening on a cliff that is abysmal in its height. This is where the unpredictability comes in. The greatest inheritance that my grandmother has is her family. A watchful, opinionated set of children who fight often but love their mother without precondition. These guardians have had a harrowing few days and watching them has been difficult for me as well. We find ourselves latching onto any good news and erupting in a guarded hope, hope that lasts for days few but then is trust into darkness again. A few days of good heath displayed by grandma is matched by a couple of days of bleakness, the ominous knot in the stomach with an underlying feeling that despair is around the corner. Unpredictability.
Now where does stagnancy come in? Well, unpredictability itself has become stagnant. The ever twisted river of life has stagnated itself into delivering news of melancholy. There is a defeated air around. My mother is depressed. She finds stagnancy in her efforts to revive her mother. She spends sleepless nights with a watchful eye over grandma hoping that her condition does not deteriorate. She is unprepared for the eventual moment but in an almost surreal manner is aware about it. She has not found acceptance. My mother has not given up. But she has tired of the stagnancy of despair and has tired of the familiar seesaw of our lives.
Families give comfort to each other and act as blankets of reassurance. They shelter us from the storms of worry and give us warmth in indemnity. Often nameless wanderers rediscover a forgotten family and are suddenly brimming with happiness, rejoicing at the one person who cares for them. Within each family however are people who are called guardians. These are the leaders who guide the ship and work towards steering everyone towards a better future and preserving unity. My mother is that guardian. People often ask me about my childhood in passing muster. They do not ask with interest but they ask with a disenchanted interest. Why is it that I talk more about my mother and seldom about my father, they ask. Truly, why do I?
When I look back at my life and recollect all the memories and experiences, I am momentarily frozen. The familiar image of a misty world suddenly springs in front of me. Our lives in dilapidated homes made with red brick and built with a cubical aesthetic suddenly appear before my eyes. I remember all the struggles I have had, with studies, with emaciation, with eccentricity and I am suddenly aware of an undeniable fact, I do not see my father in any of those images. The ubiquitous presence is one of my mother. She finds herself at all events, happy and miserable. She is the guardian of my family of 5. She has relentlessly fought for us her entire existence with almost a maniacal intensity. She thrives in her duty and his guarding of her children with almost a ravenous passion.
Today when I see her physically detest the thought of spending another night in worry at the hospital, I find myself feeling helpless at her helplessness. I am not as upset about my grandmother because I understand that the human body is not immortal, it is a timid branch of a massive tree, if one branch breaks and falls down, the tree will continue in its expansive growth. I am upset at not being able to comfort my mother. I find my purpose and my fabric within my family devoid of meaning. What is my worth when I cannot even comfort my own mother? The wheels of life have indeed stagnated. My existence is mired in immobility. I am the soundless and faceless man, screaming in a sea of nothingness, does anyone hear me? Does anyone…
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Drowning in Melancholy
Strength, a formless existent entity, the shape of it unknown, the size of it undefined and the physical capabilities of it, relative. It is something that exists in invisibility, but when it chooses to expose itself, the veracity of it, undeniable. Our capability for displaying strength under adverse situations continues to astound me perpetually. But sometimes events and situations that we are involved in get so aggravated that our capacity for sustaining them shatters. We barricade ourselves continuously but after a point, this guard shatters and we drown in the impending storm. Consumed by the waves that bind us, our existence becomes a meek version of its past.
I visited my Grandmother yesterday night, the sixteenth day of an ordeal that does not seem to end. I entered the hospital, now a familiar terrain in its polished and brightly lit hallways. I walked lethargically and without haste, listening to the sound of my own footsteps. The footsteps seem almost symphonic, like musical beats, played by a maestro who has not his gift of melody but has lost his desire to play. The footsteps feel devoid of a desire to exist in the habitat that they were being created in. I may not have spent much time here, may not have done my duty in imparting comfort to the troubled in my family but I have still tired myself of this place. The chemical scent that consumes everyone, the yellowish light, the pictures of smiling patients all seem to rile me. And so I walked up to the elevators, called on the wood-paneled enclosure, entered it smelling the familiar scent of decrepit and artificial wood. I wordlessly instructed the wood-paneled elevator to take me to the required floor.
The familiar chime of the arrived floor woke me up from a momentary daydream and I departed the elevator hesitantly. I walked past the cubical waiting area, now reduced to a cluttered and symbiotic room crowded with other visitors, each one there for a relative or friend. I walked down a narrow corridor, under the shadow of the outstretched wooden bust of the nameless saint, a bust whose significance if any lost on my unsettled serenity. I entered the Intensive Care unit, a bustling industry adept in its fight against the grim reaper. I shredded the floral printed curtains and entered the chambers that housed her, yanking them with a nervous urgency.
I was greeted my members of my extended family crowded into a tiny room. Grandma herself was seated in a chair in the corner of the room, past her bed and adjacent to the medical gadgetry designed to save her. I awkwardly waved at her, mustering a pathetic smile which probably looked more sinister than comforting. There were conversations galore across the room, the train of which I was desperately trying to latch on. There was some talk about a medical procedure that was evidently suggested by unnamed medical experts. There was an air of effervescence around, like a cauldron threatening to boil over. There were words exchanged, some flagrant and some in a casual surrender. This ordeal has been extremely taxing for all of us who are involved and our temper and patience has been on the edge of precipitous infinity.
I look at my grandmother who has metamorphosized into a frail almost inhuman version of herself. She appears exhausted, drained out of the resources that give us the strength to put forth our defense against the harsh terrain of reality. A couple of orderlies arrive and prepare to put her back into her bed. They help her in her attempt to stand up. She struggles, lumbers heavily and is unable to support her featherlike structure on her timid feet. She collapses into the trained arms of the nurse who then proceeds to pick grandma up in her arms. She lifts her up almost like a baby and deftly carries her to her nightly resting area, solitary and a bundle of corpulent wires. The orderlies then looked at my grandmother with satisfaction, like the monotonous satisfaction of a teller after the completion of a transaction and departed with the same haste as their arrival. We were relieved, caught up in our own two dimensional existence, happy at being spared the undesired task of spending another night in nervous apprehension. I smiled at my grandmother hoping to impart a sense of comfort to her, but was greeted by the shattering image of seeing her sob inconsolably like a child.
Tears trickled down her gaunt cheeks. These were not tears of weakness; there were tears of surrender. Tears, tiny droplets of saline fluid, created instantly by us as a visceral reaction to emotions. They formed Pinstripe Rivers running down her face, creating a map of almost a desert like aridness. People rushed over to console her, but I stood my ground in a corner watching her in almost a captivated arrest. Here is a woman who has been on life support twice, has not eaten in 5 days, can barely talk, has not had a drop of water to drink in two weeks and now she cries because she cannot walk on her own. I suddenly realized my selfish reaction earlier. I talk of strength like it was a virtue that I possessed, but in reality I was weak, a timid weakling, a battered car heading towards a stone wall. Strength was in the fight that my grandmother is fighting, wanting to be independent even when stripped of all life and physical capabilities. She doesn’t cry because she is weak, but she cries because she is close to giving up that fight, she is tired. The relentless battle that her body and age has inflicted upon her is winning and she finally realizes that. Her defenses crumble and we all struggle to try to pick up the pieces. We muster works of encouragement, words that sound hollow in our disbelief. My grandmother, the mother of my mother, the unifier of disparity and the upholder of togetherness drowns in melancholy and all that we can do, is watch her crumble.
I visited my Grandmother yesterday night, the sixteenth day of an ordeal that does not seem to end. I entered the hospital, now a familiar terrain in its polished and brightly lit hallways. I walked lethargically and without haste, listening to the sound of my own footsteps. The footsteps seem almost symphonic, like musical beats, played by a maestro who has not his gift of melody but has lost his desire to play. The footsteps feel devoid of a desire to exist in the habitat that they were being created in. I may not have spent much time here, may not have done my duty in imparting comfort to the troubled in my family but I have still tired myself of this place. The chemical scent that consumes everyone, the yellowish light, the pictures of smiling patients all seem to rile me. And so I walked up to the elevators, called on the wood-paneled enclosure, entered it smelling the familiar scent of decrepit and artificial wood. I wordlessly instructed the wood-paneled elevator to take me to the required floor.
The familiar chime of the arrived floor woke me up from a momentary daydream and I departed the elevator hesitantly. I walked past the cubical waiting area, now reduced to a cluttered and symbiotic room crowded with other visitors, each one there for a relative or friend. I walked down a narrow corridor, under the shadow of the outstretched wooden bust of the nameless saint, a bust whose significance if any lost on my unsettled serenity. I entered the Intensive Care unit, a bustling industry adept in its fight against the grim reaper. I shredded the floral printed curtains and entered the chambers that housed her, yanking them with a nervous urgency.
I was greeted my members of my extended family crowded into a tiny room. Grandma herself was seated in a chair in the corner of the room, past her bed and adjacent to the medical gadgetry designed to save her. I awkwardly waved at her, mustering a pathetic smile which probably looked more sinister than comforting. There were conversations galore across the room, the train of which I was desperately trying to latch on. There was some talk about a medical procedure that was evidently suggested by unnamed medical experts. There was an air of effervescence around, like a cauldron threatening to boil over. There were words exchanged, some flagrant and some in a casual surrender. This ordeal has been extremely taxing for all of us who are involved and our temper and patience has been on the edge of precipitous infinity.
I look at my grandmother who has metamorphosized into a frail almost inhuman version of herself. She appears exhausted, drained out of the resources that give us the strength to put forth our defense against the harsh terrain of reality. A couple of orderlies arrive and prepare to put her back into her bed. They help her in her attempt to stand up. She struggles, lumbers heavily and is unable to support her featherlike structure on her timid feet. She collapses into the trained arms of the nurse who then proceeds to pick grandma up in her arms. She lifts her up almost like a baby and deftly carries her to her nightly resting area, solitary and a bundle of corpulent wires. The orderlies then looked at my grandmother with satisfaction, like the monotonous satisfaction of a teller after the completion of a transaction and departed with the same haste as their arrival. We were relieved, caught up in our own two dimensional existence, happy at being spared the undesired task of spending another night in nervous apprehension. I smiled at my grandmother hoping to impart a sense of comfort to her, but was greeted by the shattering image of seeing her sob inconsolably like a child.
Tears trickled down her gaunt cheeks. These were not tears of weakness; there were tears of surrender. Tears, tiny droplets of saline fluid, created instantly by us as a visceral reaction to emotions. They formed Pinstripe Rivers running down her face, creating a map of almost a desert like aridness. People rushed over to console her, but I stood my ground in a corner watching her in almost a captivated arrest. Here is a woman who has been on life support twice, has not eaten in 5 days, can barely talk, has not had a drop of water to drink in two weeks and now she cries because she cannot walk on her own. I suddenly realized my selfish reaction earlier. I talk of strength like it was a virtue that I possessed, but in reality I was weak, a timid weakling, a battered car heading towards a stone wall. Strength was in the fight that my grandmother is fighting, wanting to be independent even when stripped of all life and physical capabilities. She doesn’t cry because she is weak, but she cries because she is close to giving up that fight, she is tired. The relentless battle that her body and age has inflicted upon her is winning and she finally realizes that. Her defenses crumble and we all struggle to try to pick up the pieces. We muster works of encouragement, words that sound hollow in our disbelief. My grandmother, the mother of my mother, the unifier of disparity and the upholder of togetherness drowns in melancholy and all that we can do, is watch her crumble.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Wish for Horses
I walked on cobbled pathways on a beautiful afternoon, the sun shimmering upon me with a mellifluous splendor. The morning had just witnessed a bout of showers and the air was alive with the scent of spring. Momentary showers bring respite, they bring changes to the scenery, they splatter creation with tiny shards of tepid water; some rush indoors to escape from it and some stay out to bask in nature shedding a few tears. I do not understand those who rush inside to shelter themselves from rain, acting as if their entire existence would be drowned by a few drops of liquid life. In fact, this day should have been the perfect opportunity for those caught in their stilted life to take a momentary respite. But still, as I walk tracing invisible footsteps I am surprised to see the absence of commotion.
It was a typical day of an early June. The rain departed and the world was suddenly flushed with a yellow light like a dollop of honey spread generously over a slab of bread. The sudden rain is quickly dried by nature’s own drier. The wonders of our existence continue to astound me, simple moments that take my breath away, finding joy in basking in the rain and then drying myself in the sun, being part of nature, part of fauna, being almost inhuman in my existence and strangely liberated from the confines of a physical body. There is a joy in me that transcend time, that transcends space and that transcends my existence.
I walk contemplating the complicacies of life when I noticed a sculpture of two horses gallantly running. The image was of a mother and her child, I could tell this more because of each one’s size relative to the other rather than any physiological accuracy. The statue was actually more granite than stone, a color that was dark brown and took on almost a black appearance covered them. The larger statue had a composed appearance, like a new mother typically is. She had an air of reassurance, of warmth and kinship that can be felt throughout. The smaller statue, of the child was a little more diminutive. The child was asunder, it was gallantly treading along, frozen in a midair leap, like grasshoppers on a rainy day. A bust, a statue, A three dimensional picture, I did not know for sure what to call it. All that I did know was that my heart was suddenly immersed in radiant feelings of comfort.
What was it, about this picture that comforted me? Was it the craftsmanship of the sculptor who carved a seemingly lifelike image from a block of stone, an entity that could not have been more devoid of life? Or was it the actual image? I think the true answer lay somewhere in the middle, wrapped in a masked covalence, hidden and unseen to the wandering eye. The answer lay in the rooted confined of my existence, stalled with a hemmed in extravagance.
Recent events have added to the meanings that I seek in life. The purpose of our existence, the answers that are sought in glaringly invisible lifestyles are furtively unanswered. The potential for losing a family relative has added my longing for comfort and has increased a sense of detachment to the world. As I squint my eyes, trying to shield them from the glare of the sun, I gaze in enraptured at the image before me. Why does this sculpture allure to me? I think it’s because of my personal struggles for comfort.
The image reminds me of the bonds shared between a mother and a child, reminding me of the tenuous bond that has the potential to be fragmented in our lives leaving all astray. It reminds me of the majestic nature of horses, the earlier form of carriage for human kind, a tireless warrior, a source of transport and a pallbearer of freedom. The horse has for generations served man with almost a servantile surrender. Its reeks of nobility, its poise is undying. The horse has the potential to carry us to great distances, transport us to a different world. It can help us escape persecution and has weathered storms. The image of a mother and a child galloping shows the forever circle of existence. The basic teaching imparted by creation transcends all species and kind. The horse stands tall, perpetual and as a beacon for all that we seek in our lives. We seek a liberator; we seek a being that would take us away from the madness of the world and onto better times. Religion has taught us to be kind to horses, recognizing their almost spiritual existence. Standing here on this unnamed street and with a heart that is vulnerable in its careening juncture at pettiness, I wish to be comforted by this granite monument. I wish for horses.
It was a typical day of an early June. The rain departed and the world was suddenly flushed with a yellow light like a dollop of honey spread generously over a slab of bread. The sudden rain is quickly dried by nature’s own drier. The wonders of our existence continue to astound me, simple moments that take my breath away, finding joy in basking in the rain and then drying myself in the sun, being part of nature, part of fauna, being almost inhuman in my existence and strangely liberated from the confines of a physical body. There is a joy in me that transcend time, that transcends space and that transcends my existence.
I walk contemplating the complicacies of life when I noticed a sculpture of two horses gallantly running. The image was of a mother and her child, I could tell this more because of each one’s size relative to the other rather than any physiological accuracy. The statue was actually more granite than stone, a color that was dark brown and took on almost a black appearance covered them. The larger statue had a composed appearance, like a new mother typically is. She had an air of reassurance, of warmth and kinship that can be felt throughout. The smaller statue, of the child was a little more diminutive. The child was asunder, it was gallantly treading along, frozen in a midair leap, like grasshoppers on a rainy day. A bust, a statue, A three dimensional picture, I did not know for sure what to call it. All that I did know was that my heart was suddenly immersed in radiant feelings of comfort.
What was it, about this picture that comforted me? Was it the craftsmanship of the sculptor who carved a seemingly lifelike image from a block of stone, an entity that could not have been more devoid of life? Or was it the actual image? I think the true answer lay somewhere in the middle, wrapped in a masked covalence, hidden and unseen to the wandering eye. The answer lay in the rooted confined of my existence, stalled with a hemmed in extravagance.
Recent events have added to the meanings that I seek in life. The purpose of our existence, the answers that are sought in glaringly invisible lifestyles are furtively unanswered. The potential for losing a family relative has added my longing for comfort and has increased a sense of detachment to the world. As I squint my eyes, trying to shield them from the glare of the sun, I gaze in enraptured at the image before me. Why does this sculpture allure to me? I think it’s because of my personal struggles for comfort.
The image reminds me of the bonds shared between a mother and a child, reminding me of the tenuous bond that has the potential to be fragmented in our lives leaving all astray. It reminds me of the majestic nature of horses, the earlier form of carriage for human kind, a tireless warrior, a source of transport and a pallbearer of freedom. The horse has for generations served man with almost a servantile surrender. Its reeks of nobility, its poise is undying. The horse has the potential to carry us to great distances, transport us to a different world. It can help us escape persecution and has weathered storms. The image of a mother and a child galloping shows the forever circle of existence. The basic teaching imparted by creation transcends all species and kind. The horse stands tall, perpetual and as a beacon for all that we seek in our lives. We seek a liberator; we seek a being that would take us away from the madness of the world and onto better times. Religion has taught us to be kind to horses, recognizing their almost spiritual existence. Standing here on this unnamed street and with a heart that is vulnerable in its careening juncture at pettiness, I wish to be comforted by this granite monument. I wish for horses.
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