Growing

When life came to earth

Life came to earth on the wings of love; it fluttered and hovered over the formless mass. When it touched down it first sorted things out and out of that blob came forth order, harmony, design… Mud turned into water below then water above. As symbols of time swamps, marshes and wetlands remain until now - memorials and as those ancient echoes of time. Darkness and light once mixed and colorless, undefined and sloppy acquired brightness, sharpness and clarity. Every pebble, every grain of sand showed off its color and its own particular shade. The gray remained as a memorial of that which once was in the primordial time while still in timeless realm. Pitch acquired blackness and its viscous substance and against it light staged its props and exquisite designs, vibrant, sharp most beautiful to the sight, desirable by the soul, which longs for the echoes of that ancient allegedly lost time.

Monuments, memorials, testaments of time draw us closer to that monument when God’s soul was grieved for man chose death over life, grayness over color and darkness over light. But is it all lost in the endless obsession with sin and the supposed fall as if to arise takes only a hope in the two crossed laths, bloody nails and that thorny crown?

Melancholy we preach, depression we reap. Sadness and regrets, pathetic excuses… the blaming game goes on endlessly… without remorse as if there’s nothing more, but the ever-present status quo.  

As I speak right now the self and its ego, its pride defies and fights, something so beautifully sublime, uplifting, immortal and where time plays no role; where sadness flee in the shadows of its own missed time.

Attachments to marshes those swamps of decay man can’t part with today until one day they’ll swallow him whole with all his odd affections. But for what I say? –For rust and dust, man’s silly devices; their values, tags, sale prices… illusions of the ever dying time.

Yet the lantern at the crossroads of time still flickers and sheds its hazy light. It’s hazy and dim for since eons of time it was not dusted or washed, left to disrepair. Alas, it was left alone and not cared for since this gift was given, from long ago, before clocks were made to cater to time that’s when man gave into slavery and its ticking sound. I point out that light I seek to revive; its glint has not gone out; it can be revived.       

Say, “It’s preposterous” for everyone must die yet it is so sad and depressive, so grievous to one’s heart; affectedly foreign, yes it’s bizarre, yet we have embraced death and domesticated like those roaming free boars, like chickens, cats and dogs.

We follow the numbers and the moving arms of the regulators of time. Like gods we worship the skipping intervals of time and the rhythmic beat of planets orbiting the sun. Our eyes look down and our souls do follow the down-spiraling trail we’ve been busy cutting from dawn till sunset with calloused hands and sweat of the brow. What have we achieved by harnessing the atom? Death we breed and death we follow being so impressed with Cain’s ways, his décor and his vain sophistication.

Gold - Cain’s god, he gave it to us to appraise and esteem and fall in love with. Those handles on your coffer, the inner lining too, is made out of the shiny glimmer and gold-like yellow brand whence it came to whence you plan to go.

Those tears you shed at that last farewell don’t dry up too easy they resurface and stay wet, but not after the clock struck its final bell. The next of kin then follows the trail, which Cain had cut and always trekked; in time it hardened; now’s frozen solid and still.