With a surprised, long exhale, I say to myself, Not here, not now, not like this. Do I want to open Pandora’s box? What I have been, what I consumed, what I gave back in return, what I meant to others, and above all, how I treated myself against a mirror. These reflections tugged away in the corner of my mind but suddenly bubbled up like an old, faithful geyser. I realized the cards were decked against me: I would fail to define them. It is, however, a miracle that I continued my journey through life with unanswered inquiries and am now fortunate to rest under a jacaranda tree with beautiful purple flowers. The feather touch of the chilly spring evening breeze on my soft, wrinkled, aged skin is too comforting to welcome aches and pains—physical or emotional! Left with a profound marvel and drenched in a rain of wonderment, I close my eye and lie down on a patch of grass.
About an hour later, I reluctantly open my eyelid and notice a sense of control or ego of knowledge dictating how things are or ought to be around me when I futilely try to fix my stare at a bundle of white fluffy clouds. The moment I blink, I lose them, never to find them again. In an “Anupol,” they take on a new shape or dissolve into the vastness of the blue muslin sky. Does the notion of leaving or disappearing matter to them at all? Perhaps there is no end to their lives—only an endless loop of apathy followed by aspiration. The wind waltzes and elopes with the clouds towards the faraway mountains, leaving me with the fallen purple smiles of the Jacaranda flowers. They were part of the tree once, but not now. Does it diminish their significance to the tree and the ground on which they fell? Isn’t everything connected in kinship with an invisible loop of a season? Have I ever considered that maybe the clouds are like a message from the angels telling me that the purpose of life is not to search for a specific meaning or find absolute answers?
We are to seek and create unique life experiences, like a memorable tune or a tango with our object of desire. However, our perceptions of what we stare at may differ. What I see written in the clouds or the faint traces of stars may vary from what you imagine. If we were both here under the Jacaranda tree, we would be correct about our perspectives of the hue of blue or Payne’s gray sky. Only briefly! Until the cloud says goodbye or the stars are drowned in brightness. They will invariably do so. That is what they do and always have done: the stars’ luminosity will darken, the breeze will warm up, and the cloud will change shape.
The land beneath our feet is constantly transforming. What we can touch, smell, or hear is fleeting, at a blinding speed—a reminder of mortality. Our bodies are decaying, and one day we will be gone. The definition of who we are is ever-changing, too. We are not the same people we were yesterday, nor will we be the same tomorrow. Our anatomy, knowledge, perspective, and experiences are all constantly evolving. As we change, so does our understanding of the world around us. It is a good thing, perhaps the best of things, for it allows us to grow. We can only leave behind diaries with our experiences and vocabularies for fellow travelers—the “Mawkib.” Any other exertions to reach or find an absolutely perfect conclusion will nowise benefit anyone. Our journeys are along different paths but eventually reach the same destination: a point of no return, a threshold from which we can no longer return to our reality.
Palladian (Adjective): 1. Wise or learned. 2. Relating to wisdom, knowledge, or learning.
Mawkib is an Arabic word that means “procession, parade, or pageant.”