The Trickster and The Fool
Dear Reader, There’s something grotesque afoot on the rain-drenched verandah floor. A broken wing of a dragonfly is erratically wandering about, as if in a frantic search for its now flightless, maybe lifeless owner. The obvious perpetrator is underneath - a contumacious ant, coloured bright red by a churning rage that refuses to be confined in such a mortal being. I silently cheer it on. Not unlike a dragonfly and its wings, time too is unpredictable and menacingly beautiful, feigning stillness by moving blindingly quick. The spirited ant reflects our fate - a frail creature battling a gargantuan foe, celebrating every inflicted wound, even a severed wing. Knotted veils of rain now drape the landscape, peeling it into distinct layers. Within a few moments, a feeling of ineffable warmth envelopes my senses. Reality refracts and smudges into painterly realism. The painfully metallic scent of the world is replaced by the intoxicating fragrance of nostalgia. The eve...