Wait for me baby!!!
the valleys are low indeed. dreams are featherweight with their fair doses of gravity. they seem to float forever, as they sway from side to side in their descent, yet their weight made their downward journey seem heavier than they really are. Weight? Or resistance? perhaps the latter more likely.
As dreams fade out, as the last push for the final stand fizzles, all breath is punctured out of one’s lungs after the preceding blow…one can simply stare forward with straight eyes, straight eyes with linings of waverings as though that of disbelief, that of the reluctant embrace of reality.
The feather finally strokes the earth with a gentle thump so soft, yet so deafening at the same time. It is final. and it lays, sways the little bit once more, till the next wind pushes it up that little only to fall again till the only action which makes thorough sense is that of it barely rising; coupled with that definitive and certain descent.
May i catch wind again. One that lasts more than a mere breeze.
Feather. Into Feathers. Stretching out to the span of a wing. Into a pair of wings. That of an eagle. That which Flies.
— Kings Of Leon, The Immortals.
The sky was supposed to give one a different view from the top. It did, but not for long… For a mere creature such as me, who long marveled at the Beauty of the sky and the inconsistent strokes of clouds from the earth below; surely, surely being up there on a plane with the aerial view of the clouds above the clouds, the sky above the skies…it ought to be satisfying.
But it wasn’t to be. The fascination did not last long despite the apparent grandeur beyond the windows. In fact the window of enthrallment, persists less than the seconds taken to pass the first stretch of clouds. Was it the separation between me in the plane, and the sky beyond which caused such indifference? Was it the fault of the machine? Or have the anticipation been built up to such an extent, that the feeling of admiration is long exhausted within me, that it is over-rehearsed and simulated within me, within my mind and dreams? Such that when the Real comes, it becomes bland and unmoving.
To be unable to marvel at the splendor of the sky leaves one heavily empty. There were moments when we stare from below, and wish duly that we can be up there, perhaps even flying defying the law of nature and its forces. But now… it leaves me passive and terribly bored… Any effort to bring myself to be rapt by the scenery simply left me staring into thin air without absorbing anything more. Any attempts to fill my mind with words like “ Goodness the sky is beautiful…awesome…wondrous blah blah” and any vocabulary as such makes me even more aware that Beauty is desperately escaping from me. And I am desperate to prolong her stay in my mind. I am creating the ideal of Beauty inside my head. Which isn’t right in any sense. What happened to my sensory neurons? And my taste and desire for magnificence? Where? Was I not supposed to be overwhelmed and my breath taken away?
Which leaves me thinking, is it because there is a greater beauty beyond this, or like above, I am numb and over-simulated between my ears?
I would much prefer the first possibility as it means that any desire for Beauty still persists on within me, for the second option simply means apathy to so large a degree that ironically what one can muster himself/herself to feel, or rather believe he/she is feeling is ” I am in love with this sky, its so beautiful….is it?” Is it not.
Seeing may not be believing after all. What then is believing? Beyond mere sight? But if mere sight is so grand a view, and one ceases to be able to absorb it, ( this is different from Beauty being too much for comprehension that our cup overflows and hits its physical limits, ), that we are powerless to even begin to be in awe of the majestic beings… are we believing? Is it in our head to create these moments of memorizations? You are what you think, believe and overcome the giants; or so they say. I guess my answer would be, “its in the head”.
The failures of the yesterdays seem to have their weights cast upon the possibilities of tomorrows. Are we really free from them? Perhaps we are. But every now and then, when they come knocking on the door, when u stared down at the scars left on your hands by your own accord, surely one must have at least a sense of progress.
But doubts do exist and there will be moments when your hand feels heavy. Weight. A sense of Gravity. Physical. Metaphysical. Between your ears and in your palms. Within your heart. A revisitation. A reminder of how high the ladder is, and how broad the horizon will be. Given this, Gravity can only mean a sense of reality.
But reality does mean possibilities and hope. If taken in another light that is. It means there is a point to be travelled to, and that there is a process in waiting. And it can only compass us to a pool of richness which means not the state of the physical. But something else. And thats what we have been waiting for. Something which is beyond us, and something which we work towards. If we fail, we ought not to let the gravity bind us to the earth. After all gravity is the force which puts things in order. For a reason too. For now it means, ” I will give it a go…again.” And Gravity can only draw two objects closer together. A force which brings us to that place. A force of higher order. A force which gives the universe its shape. The planets their curves. It is a weight which is all well. It molds.
It’s time. For Neon.
lesson learnt: Dedication.
Thank you God :}