To that place where memories still reverberrate...
She set off one day, to find that secret place. The place where the past still exists not in some long forgotten dream, not in some yellowed archived pages, or words from the long dead, but where they still live and breathe like the trees around her. Where they become things, living things with a life, instead of something half-dead clinging to the living, like pieces of driftwoods after a ship wreck. Where they are more than artefacts, a testimony silent but dead to a past time. A falsifed witness. A liar who chose to omit things to the eyes, so that we only see what we want to see. No she wanted to see the past independent of memory. Independent of tenses. She wanted to touch the secret core of existence, the independent existnece of things which have come and passed, like the rain.
When she told them of her intention and her journey, they laughed.
"You'll have to be dead first." Cruel laughters.
"it is impossible, you are looking for the impossible. That place you look for does not exist. Only in your mind, it has no external reality. All the past has already faded, what is real is only now. LIsten to the wisdom of the Buddha." Wise councils.
"That is scientifically illogical. physically imposssible. What you are talking about here is a mere fantasy. You would not be able to travel to such a dimension even if it existed. And even if you did, you will no longer be you, so what's the whole point of this foolish entreprise?"
Whether it was out of stubborness or a staunch faith, she heeded none of the warnings, their teasings, and the truthful confrontations by the wise. She knew that the place existed, somewhere outside of time, outside of human knowledge of possibilities. The only problem is how to get there. Must she really die first in order to get to that place. Perhaps that is the only way to break out of the cage of human-bound physical reality, to get to the one inhabited by past memories.
Books and imaginations could not describe this place, because all those are the outputs of human mind. Sanity--is our guidepost and our chain. To fly perhaps she needed to break that chain. People who cared for her started to worry that she is going mad.
"You are obsessed." They say.
"Obsessed about things which lay out of reach. The past cannot be retrieved, and you are being foolish. Let memories lie, like the dead, don't go disturbing them."
"What is this journey you are planning? To travel you need a destination, you need an intention. What you are talking about here is crazy. there is no such place you can go to. Why don't you just stick to anticipating visiting the future instead of trying to return to a past." Their concerns had no place in her desire.
Once a desire has been placed in your heart, it is like a stubborn stain which refused to be forgotten. It surfaces time and again in your consciousness, haunts your dreams, and like a slowly rising tide, removes the extraneous, until all that is left, after the flood is the essential, the core of that desire. she envisioned herself paddling a tiny wooden boat in this sea of liquid dreams time and again--trying to find her way to the palace of the past.
Every old photograph was a testimony to this place. EVery captured moment of sunlight filtering in, on a incidental passing person spoke like a secret, a frozen lake of time beneath which the past still swims. She refused to be fooled by the eyes or the senses. Her knowledge has a deep dark spring well, the same place where babies and ancient wisdom came from.
In dreams, she returned to the sea inside. And all around her, the watery expanse was vast, and all she could hear for the longest time was just herself calling out and the echoes which returned. All she could see was that misty whiteness.
"Wake up from your fever, little girl, come back to us, to reality." Voices, disembodied and yet familiar, like an old song--foreign and familiar.
Mechanical blips sometimes filtered in unto the still lake of whiteness, she still paddles on, looking for the way to the place where Elvis songs and Mozart pieces drifts and blows like breezes through leaves; not the replicas on little silver discs, and Mona lisa smiles with a secret that is warm like blood running beneath veins. Where the childhood sunshine still burns her skin, torched and tattooed in a memory which threatens to evaporate every second, which seeks to mutate and recreate every instant into something new strange, foreign.
At the edge of the massive sea, she put down her burdens, strips her clothes and her past, leaves her shoes behind. And she never turned back.
She set off one day, to find that secret place. The place where the past still exists not in some long forgotten dream, not in some yellowed archived pages, or words from the long dead, but where they still live and breathe like the trees around her. Where they become things, living things with a life, instead of something half-dead clinging to the living, like pieces of driftwoods after a ship wreck. Where they are more than artefacts, a testimony silent but dead to a past time. A falsifed witness. A liar who chose to omit things to the eyes, so that we only see what we want to see. No she wanted to see the past independent of memory. Independent of tenses. She wanted to touch the secret core of existence, the independent existnece of things which have come and passed, like the rain.
When she told them of her intention and her journey, they laughed.
"You'll have to be dead first." Cruel laughters.
"it is impossible, you are looking for the impossible. That place you look for does not exist. Only in your mind, it has no external reality. All the past has already faded, what is real is only now. LIsten to the wisdom of the Buddha." Wise councils.
"That is scientifically illogical. physically imposssible. What you are talking about here is a mere fantasy. You would not be able to travel to such a dimension even if it existed. And even if you did, you will no longer be you, so what's the whole point of this foolish entreprise?"
Whether it was out of stubborness or a staunch faith, she heeded none of the warnings, their teasings, and the truthful confrontations by the wise. She knew that the place existed, somewhere outside of time, outside of human knowledge of possibilities. The only problem is how to get there. Must she really die first in order to get to that place. Perhaps that is the only way to break out of the cage of human-bound physical reality, to get to the one inhabited by past memories.
Books and imaginations could not describe this place, because all those are the outputs of human mind. Sanity--is our guidepost and our chain. To fly perhaps she needed to break that chain. People who cared for her started to worry that she is going mad.
"You are obsessed." They say.
"Obsessed about things which lay out of reach. The past cannot be retrieved, and you are being foolish. Let memories lie, like the dead, don't go disturbing them."
"What is this journey you are planning? To travel you need a destination, you need an intention. What you are talking about here is crazy. there is no such place you can go to. Why don't you just stick to anticipating visiting the future instead of trying to return to a past." Their concerns had no place in her desire.
Once a desire has been placed in your heart, it is like a stubborn stain which refused to be forgotten. It surfaces time and again in your consciousness, haunts your dreams, and like a slowly rising tide, removes the extraneous, until all that is left, after the flood is the essential, the core of that desire. she envisioned herself paddling a tiny wooden boat in this sea of liquid dreams time and again--trying to find her way to the palace of the past.
Every old photograph was a testimony to this place. EVery captured moment of sunlight filtering in, on a incidental passing person spoke like a secret, a frozen lake of time beneath which the past still swims. She refused to be fooled by the eyes or the senses. Her knowledge has a deep dark spring well, the same place where babies and ancient wisdom came from.
In dreams, she returned to the sea inside. And all around her, the watery expanse was vast, and all she could hear for the longest time was just herself calling out and the echoes which returned. All she could see was that misty whiteness.
"Wake up from your fever, little girl, come back to us, to reality." Voices, disembodied and yet familiar, like an old song--foreign and familiar.
Mechanical blips sometimes filtered in unto the still lake of whiteness, she still paddles on, looking for the way to the place where Elvis songs and Mozart pieces drifts and blows like breezes through leaves; not the replicas on little silver discs, and Mona lisa smiles with a secret that is warm like blood running beneath veins. Where the childhood sunshine still burns her skin, torched and tattooed in a memory which threatens to evaporate every second, which seeks to mutate and recreate every instant into something new strange, foreign.
At the edge of the massive sea, she put down her burdens, strips her clothes and her past, leaves her shoes behind. And she never turned back.
posted by Nippy at 11:45 AM
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