Ripples

A budding sprout of anxiety dances unceremoniously on the walls of your stomach. That initial ripple is barely perceptible, and a slight dislocation of objective reality occurs. You lose your orientation for just that nibble of time; helpless, however, as refreshing leaves clamour towards and upwards your gullet, eager to flirt with the innocent taste buds. Then anxiety renounces itself, and emerges once again as panic, harbouring dreams of becoming fear. Should I describe its flavour as salty? Tangy? Ultimately irrelevant, as you now usher in the symphony of raised heartbeat, flushed cheeks and a rapidly drying mouth. Uncertain reality as we know and mould it slips further down the slope of the Supreme Illusion. Nonetheless we continue to be helpless to it all. If anxiety thus escalates effortlessly to fear, let us bow our heads to petition the Divine, to likewise hasten the sluggish footsteps of our joy.

Galloping on the Plains

And thus it has been almost a year since the first lamentations were penned, in an effort to divert the consciousness away from the acute pain of my physical and emotional immediacy, such that I might take flight in the vastness of introspection, while I spare an effigy of passivity for the callous demands of the world. I was indeed hoping that, while being lost in my ceaseless galloping, the passage of time may mercifully accelerate itself and forward me to the next horizon, the next plunge, my next universe. While old wounds heal in mere anticipation for new ones to invade the flesh, what more can the soul do but linger wistfully by the roadside, spending more time sniffing an occasional rose? The days roll on despite your personal conceptions of temporality. For all we know, tomorrow is but yesterday waiting to revisit, to renourish and relearn our joys and grief.