We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.

We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more ---William Wordsworth

Thursday, 28 July 2016

Serenade for Winds

I awakened to a distant, pulsating sound that soon dwindled into silence. I listened rigid and heard nothing but the creep of blood in my ears and the occasional sigh of the wind around me. Gray and shadowy was the world. The weather and scene without seemed to mimic those of my feelings within - everything was draped in unrelieved shades of gray. Shrubs of Juniper and Cranberry, and pine varieties, were grayish black; those of the broad leaved sort, were grayish green; the crags and the eternal hills were grayish brown; the sky, dropping behind all, gray of the purest melancholy, curdled and the clouds arranged themselves into little clumps like strewn cotton wool.
And I drifted  solitary through its vast mysteries.

Raucous and throaty cries, like those belonging to larks or linnets or finches, sounded harsh in my ears as I thus wandered like a zephyr; as if I was an intruder in their midst. A remote, palpable question of where I might be drifted and hovered in my mind. I found myself standing astonished on the edge of a precipice : a steep, dark and dreadful abyss whence great pulsing clouds of white steam rolled upwards.
I felt giddy yet excited; my emotions penetrated by something inexplicable and pregnant with uncertainty. I felt naked. I felt as though perhaps a wounded bird may feel into clear air knowing that a hawk wings above and that it will swoop and be gobbled up. As though perhaps Dante Alighieri might have felt when he found himself one day at a fateful doorway which he hesitated to enter.  

What is this spirit in man that urges him to forever depart from happiness? This restlessness and indefatigable desire to toil and to place himself in danger?
It is merely because there is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, at any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost. 
We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not. 

It was this restlessness, this insecurity perhaps, that drove me further and further afield in my explorations. 
It was maybe a while or so since I stopped hearing the various sounds accompanying me as I thus wandered, pensive and engrossed in my own whirl of thoughts. There were no warning cries from birds, no rustling of the leaves and no whistling of the wind; just the crunch of gravel under my shoes.
The silence was deafening.
It was then, that I began to feel the need of fellowship. I wanted to question, wanted to feel; wanted to relate my experience. 
As the hush of the evening crept over the world, the sun touched the mountains and swiftly became a blazing hemisphere of liquid flame and sank.
Then, slowly and softly the myriad colors of the evening sky mingled into each other and enwrapping the world fold after fold into deepening blue, came the night. The icy chill of the night pierced my bones and entranced by the splendor of the sight, I sat down and mused. 
In the sky, one bright star shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.

At last, I realized the full temerity of my voyage as I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back to my life. 
I reclined upon the ground and gazed at the multitude of stars twinkling in the sky above, wondering at how many people like me would  be out there searching for solace.
A cool breeze had started blowing from the west and the leaves resumed their rustling.
A smile danced on my lips and I whistled a half remembered tune, in the hope that this musical note would remain suspended in the air for someone else to be a companion for.

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