Not here, not now, not like this, do I want to trust that I know anything preciously? What I have been, what I took, what I gave back in return, what I meant to others, and above all, how I treated myself in the mirror. These thoughts keep bubbling up like an old, faithful geyser in my head. The cards were decked against me, and I knew well that I would lose. Yet, how I managed to swim against the streams and now sit under the purple jacaranda tree—an exquisite life form to contemplate a loss—is nothing short of a miracle! The feather touch of a chilly spring evening breeze on my soft, wrinkled, aged skin is too comforting to ease aches and pains. Now I wonder, and wondering I do endlessly!
A sense of command or knowing how things are or ought to be is my futile attempt as if to fix my stare at a bundle of white feathery 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 the cloud at all? Perhaps there is no end to their lives—only an endless loop of apathy followed by aspiration. The wind elopes with the clouds towards the faraway mountains and leaves me with fallen purple smiles of flowers. They were part of the tree once, but not anymore, not now. That diminishes neither their significance to the tree nor to the ground on which they fell. All are connected in kinship with an invisible loop of seasons. I wonder again: what if the clouds were the text of angels telling us that the meaning of it all is not to seek anything definite or inquire about an absolute answer?
But we merely create a memorable tune with our own tiny lives and a waltz with the ever-fleeting clouds. What I see then in the sky, written with clouds or a portrait with faint traces of scattered stars, is different, often opposite to what you imagine and perceive. If you cared to join me here under the jacaranda now, we would both be correct about our perspectives on the blue or Payne’s gray sky, albeit momentarily. Until the cloud says goodbye to both. Or the stars are drowning in brightness. That is what they do and have always done. Not to ignore us or not pay homage to our racing decay, from here and now. They are meant to leave us with an opportunity and an invitation to write new journals. And revise as the shape of the cloud, the luminosity of the stars, and the warmth of the breeze change. We, too, then join their “Mawkib.” Since a recipe to reach the perfect definitive tip will nowise benefit oneself, there is only one path leading to the same destination. We may not have noticed it sincerely, but that is what we do and always have done.
*Mawkib: Arabic for parade or procession