nickolas

Like Time In The Petals Of a Passion Flower

High above the sand dunes of forgetfulness and clusters of the spiteful lakes of question stands a
mountain, both great and tall. Its incalculable vastness mystifies many, and often leaves them
with neck aches -- when attempted to view its peak (from its base). Mist veils the mountain's top
with dew-covered ridges and plagues that sweep away all remembrance from that which travels
on its many paths. What name is to be brought to such a depleting mount? Time, ah' yes, Time.
And on its peak, rumor has it, lays an even more puculiar entity. A possessor of the mountain,
who controls its life-binding power; the power to forget. What creature could have such an
authoritative power? Gargantua, a rare Passion Flower. Now, this is not just any flower, however,
but one that has been touched by the blood of a great sorcerer named Melatoris, who was being
executed near the ground it is nestled in. This blood enabled Gargantua to have only one wish.
And so, it demanded the power of "Time" so that it may erase the remembrance of Melatoris's
brutal attack. When Gargantua tried to banish the memory, he found that it was impossible,
because in doing so he would forget ever receiving this gift. Therefore, in a bitter act of
rancoruous anguish he cursed "Time" so that whosoever walks along its path should be cursed
with forgetfulness.

In the same surreal setting as a passion flower would open its petals -- displaying its forgotten
majesty -- my abandoned memories recollect. I have forgotten the tales I spoke of as a child (who
at the time couldn't understand the blossoming I would soon project). Maybe someday, I will
scurry about as one whose papers are blowing away in the wind, and in the same way assemble
my vague child-day memories.

When a Passion Flower comes to mind, I think of how memories I thought I had done my best to
memorize wither. I am beginning to realize that time is a process that leads to forgetfulness.
Year, after year, after year -- that all somehow bleed into one -- leave me feeling a bit weary of
life and age. How many more things am I to forget and become less interested in? Will I
remember myself today thirty years from now? Probably not. and that shudders me as one faced
with a depleting reflection of what inevitably will be themselves.

I, a climber of "Time" have been cursed to forget. Memories drip from a leak within my
recollection; that somehow can't be repaired -- but rather need to be found, for they are lost
somewhere in time. I voyage through reminiscence and indecisiveness on a summoned ship that
is led by no stars or by any compass, but is guided blindly though this forgetful course.

Posted 1/9/02

                                             Excerpt from a story called....

                                           A HOMELESS MAN'S FANTASY

     Bottle, buoy-like, tossed up and down skimming along the oceans surface. I stood shoreline, observing God's creation and pondering life�s greatest questions. Sun reflected against the hour glass figure and blinded me as a wave brought it eye level. It crashed onto dry land and spun like a wheel on its axis. When it stopped twirling, my curiosity grew. It appeared to contain something other than water. I approached it while thinking what it could contain, then picked it up and looked through it. My eyes focused on a piece of paper that was planted in the sandy bottom. There was something else, some foreign object I had not yet figured out; it too was planted in its bottom. I pulled the cork and dumped its contents. The piece of paper was flimsy and tore at one end when I picked it up. The ink was smeared, but not enough to make it unreadable. I adjusted my dirty hat and wiggled my toes through a hole in my shoe. I hadn�t been this excited in years, and it finally came over me. Dirt from underneath my fingernails made mud on the paper, covering up the date it had been written.
     I thought, �What could be so blasted important that it be encased in a bottle and thrown to sea. What secrets do it hold? Or, what is it hiding?� After wrinkling my forehead I asked myself, �What the hell am I waiting for?� I read:
     �I pray that who ever should find this, be deserving of it. I am elderly and weary; my days are numbered. I have no one; forced to die alone. Having no person alive to give my fortune to, I give it to you. Enclosed is a deed to my property located in England. The address is 1922 Cannery Lane, London, England. I have made arrangements so that it stays preserved for you. The Lord has blessed me with a good life and I pray you live as merry as I have.�
     After reading this, my heart skipped a beat, almost being too good to be true. In fact, I had seen this episode on a daytime series of Days Of Our Lives�when I owned a television. I had been humble all my life and didn�t know how to react. Thrilled, I was, but it wasn�t enough. Something else, that I could never explain came over me. I became numb of fear, felt alive and well, happy, and yet sad, poor, but rich.
     Out of the corner of my eye I could see the foreign object laying beach front. I had forgotten all about it. Bending over, I picking it up and saw that it was a three ring handle key, rusted and dull. I supposed it belongs to the home; maybe not. Possibly there would be a scavenger hunt. Regardless, it seemed to belong to something valuable.
     I began to think of what was written, �I pray that who ever should find this, be deserving of it.� There I was; hadn�t showered in weeks and smelt of smoldering manure. I didn�t deserve this, but I felt that its purpose would best serve me more than some pompous twit. I thought about casting it back into the ocean for someone else to find, but I placed it in my bag. After all, this kind of thing doesn�t happen to just anybody, for it is a homeless man's fantasy to stumble upon such a bottle guided by fate.

Posted 2/10/02