The Joyful Brook
It is gentle fresh breeze, blowing with rhymes of
happy cheering leaves of wild trees from the neighboring wood. Running tiny
fountain stream through the wilderness fails to hide music of conflicting stone
pieces at its bottom. Several birds of unknown species are singing chorus with
all other gaily-innocent beings of nature. Sky overhead seems to be happy with
its blueness and never-ending depth. Old, tired sun is radiating spirit of life
over its surrounding aimlessly. Drowsy fragrance of enormous flowers is ruling
the space of charming green despite of their transient lives. Butterflies are
dancing with flashing colors of daylight. Squirrels, with furry bumping tails
playing and jumping in innocent happiness, busy enough to hide their nuts in
grass.
It is I and only I, who is thinking
and hesitating, keeping hands under the chin about what should I do now. I, at
this moment, find myself in a kingdom of indifference and detachment from
oscillating heart of delighted nature. My sense of isolation, right now is
making me unhappy and weakening my heart with discontent.
All on a sudden, I got a perfect
remedy of my mental numbness, overwhelming and unbearable. Yes, the healer is
nothing but the dream, the possessor of wonderful magic lamp, capable of
transforming impossible to possible. From exclusive scientific innovation to
memorable literary creation, nothing is possible without the playful act of
dream. There is no denial of the fact that imagination brings on dreams of
creativity. Why could not you dream to fly like a bold eagle in the sovereign
sky or glide wherever you prefer in the wide eternal blue. Why could not you
expel from your stagnant dwelling to touch the horizon, where sky kisses the
earth with his delicate softness and love.
Once five blind persons were asked to describe an elephant. They were allowed to experience the physical shape of an elephant by touching it. But the ironical conclusion of that act kept them into a strong disagreement about an elephant’s physical shape. To me defining life, in a sense, is like the effort of describing an elephant by the blinds. Life usually appears with its different flavor, texture and taste from person to person irrespective of time, space and environment. Philosophers, scientists and poets transcend and interpret life with their levels of consciousness. For instance, philosophers assume life as a large green field, infinitely extended. Such a space of unlimited boundary is considered as the symbol of absolute life where as individual lives are like small humble huts in that evergreen field. We have superficial experience about our personal lives, attained by lower consciousness but unfortunately we don’t have any ultimate idea about it. Philosophers of the centuries think, complete awareness and higher consciousness are the main requirements to transcend ultimate life. For me, it seems to be quite absurd to attain this position. Scientists find life in movement, metabolism, reproduction, adaptation and so on; they explore with the secret code of gene, the basic and primary structure of life. To poets life is a wonderful, mysterious dream gifted by nature. To them, “Life is a tale, told by an idiot”, or “ what is this life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare”. To my best friend, life is really a funny thing. From dawn to dusk she keeps whispering in my ear, life is money, money is life. Keeping a strong disagreement and silence, I used to say, “ Yes, it is”, because to debate with her about life is quite boring, I am afraid of this boredom, because every time I guessed, our debate was turned into verbal fighting, which I disliked indeed. After the battle with my peer, I used to expel from my cottage and wander aimlessly. Few often I may appear before the Bank of Nova Scotia just for nothing. My sight stack on the neon sign of the bank, where it says, money and life balance both.
Mental and physical trauma, losses of
dream, irony of aging often make life unbearable. Lives with misery and untreatable
sore are horribly intoxicated with painful senses of grievance. Sometimes such
lives come to a tragic conclusion by the cruel reality of self-destruction.
Every now and then an unknown echo gets into my mind and try to revel the
truth, let the nature play within you, it has a lovely intention with your
life.
However, philosopher, scientists and
poets interpret life, of course it will be far from the absolute truth. Such is
the sense of relativeness in this world of imperfection. Whatever be the feelings
of life to my best friend, my short sighted observation wants to exclaim, life
is for feelings, life is to create and recreate and obviously life is nothing
but the lovely cruel experiment of nature.
To be continued……