Towards the sea…
Posted on: June 16, 2010
When the pen is between the fingers, it knows the meaninglessness of resistance.
How about the pen of heart?
Whose fingers is it between ?
They say man’s heart is like a feather in the desert. The blowing wind takes it sometimes this and sometimes that way.
Is there any other choice but to beg the wind?
The pen of heart is between the fingers of grace and grief.
Sometimes grieving and sometimes being happy…
You have been a pen for ages. Have you ever been able to cope with the fingers?
And the wind?
Have you ever guessed where and when it will blow?
There was a man living in a desert. He was curious to know if the desert had an end. Sometimes he asked his question to the sand and sometimes he had a heart to heart talk with the night. He was always hopeful to find out the end of the desert. The sand never cared as it thought it was a vain deed. Besides they weren’t the same kind. The night never cared about showing the way. It was there to cover the beginning and the end of the road. The sun was a guide but he couldn’t look at it. It was too bright. What is more, it was difficult to proceed in the desert during the day. The stars were the most suitable guides. But which one?
One day he met others who travelled during the day and night. He came closer and asked his question. But he didn’t understand their language. Yet, he didn’t give up. He tried to find another way to communicate. In the end he decided not to care about being understood. He followed them. They were never talking and they were proceeding fast. Only a few of them were able to look directly at the sun. The ones who were able to read the signs of the stars were greater in number. Time to time they gathered and consulted each other. While proceeding that far, suddenly the wind blew and destroyed everywhere. The sand flew hither and thither and they found themselves even behind the place where they had started their journey. They couldn’t cope with the wind. As that event repeated itself several times, they turned to the man. They just looked at him silently again. They thought that the man knew how to cope with the wind.
“”You should stop when the wind blows,” said the man.
They stopped.
They stopped whenever the wind blew.
Then they moved forward again.
They understood that it was vain to resist the wind.
When they gave up resisting the wind started to blow in a different way.
The pen became complaisant between the fingers.
It poured its tears down its nib.
The tears turned into letters.
The letters turned into words.
The words came together first. They formed small lakes.
Then they turned into rivers. The rivers flowed sometimes calmly and sometimes wildly.
There was no choice but to reach the sea.
They set for the sea…
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