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 evening smells like the scent of spirits from better bygones. I suspect - no, I am sure that this elusive state of liminal euphoria is what I chase through words, images and existence. 

I often find myself wallowing in resentment against the tyranny of time for driving this feeling into exile. In its absence our sanity is swiftly impaled by mechanistic reality. We turn into mad old magicians trying to amuse ourselves with the same old tricks. But perhaps the increasing rarity of this state of detached belonging has made it more sought after. When it eventually chooses to give me company, I can embrace it like an old friend and pick up where we last abruptly said goodbye. 

As my gaze shifts back to the floor of the verandah, I spot the ant again. The amputated wing is now nowhere to be seen. Scampering around in exasperated circles, the impertinence of an apparent victory against time seems to have finally dawned upon the tiny being. 

But I soon realise that I was casting my thoughts on this blissfully unaware creature, trapping it in the convoluted contraption known as consciousness. Consciousness is quite comical, isn’t it? Wrought with absurdity, it makes chaos inherent in the sentient, then sets us down a path to find unattainable order by seeking an amorphous concept of wisdom. 

Acknowledging that we alone are afflicted by this complexity transformed the pitiful sight of the directionless ant into a comforting image of unbothered existence. I take a look at the world without the distorted and stained glasses of existential consciousness. 

Now, the orchids that I thought were drooping under the weight of the world seem to be meditating in the fitful rain. I start seeing the miry pools of dirt and drowned weeds as new worlds that are being birthed in flower pots, nooks and odd niches. Although the birdsongs have petered out, I begin to enjoy the simple yet steady rhythm of croaking frogs and crickets which has now set the tone for the evening.

A fearsome growl interrupts the symphony. The sky which was awash with an indifferent shade of grey is now churning, mixing explosions of cerulean, lilacs and scarlets with violent grace. It was imploring me to rile up my lake of reflection into a relentless ocean of thought. The gust has picked up again and is now taking restless laps around the garden before heading into the trees, sealing the fate of older leaves and striking fear in the hearts of the younger ones. 

Its trail of restrained destruction led my eyes to an odd opening in the tree line. It was where a sprawling Lebbek tree once stood and swayed in all its humble glory. I ponder all the lives it must have witnessed in this quiet bucolic town. Glimpses of calloused souls passing by on untiring feet. Some would only be seen once, others would return only to pass by again, but there were many who put down roots of concrete, becoming more immovable than the tree itself.

Now what remains is a neglected scene of crime. Under the weeds and crumbling dirt lies a decaying stump, visited only by termites, snakes and the occasional scrappy stray looking for a spot to rest itself. Its rings end abruptly but its roots grasp the earth with the strength imparted by death. In this case, man is undoubtedly the murderer. But is Time the accomplice that buried the evidence or a force that healed the wound?

Raindrops are now crashing down mercilessly in the millions, like kamikaze bombers diving from their motherships. The sound of each sacrifice fuses into a single-pitched bellow, silencing my mind with monotony. I slip further into detached reminiscing. 

The world becomes a taut white canvas on which a film of treasured memories is being projected. The greatest hits are playing, starring familiar faces of my yesteryear. It’s faint, flickering and shabbily edited, but I still watch in rapt attention. Even though my mind has botched the production, the screenplay penned by Time still pulls at my heartstrings. 

The echoing scream of raindrops exploding against terra firma has now quietened down to a timid rattle. Impatient rays of pallid sunlight are seeping in through every crack in the floating fortress of clouds. Gradually, as the cracks widen into gleaming rivers of gold, the grey wall gives way, solemnly accepting defeat.

The light of early dusk floods the scene and promptly dissolves in the frigid layer of rainwater. It encases everything from the rotund shrubs to the lofty boughs in a shell of brilliant amber, making them seem like newly formed fossils. The once mighty flock of fierce monsoon clouds can be seen scattering like startled sheep, running off into the horizon where the towering mountains lie, waiting in ambush.  

Although the newfound warmth of the evening had enticed the butterflies and squirrels to come out into the open, I felt the warmth of my cocoon start to fade. The flickering film starts to stutter and pause.  Faces radiant with joy begin evaporating into nothingness. A prickly metallic scent sneaks in and assaults my senses. The sharpness of tangible reality slices through the impalpable illusion, bleeding it dry of colour and charm. 

I know it. This is goodbye.

Farewell to this feeling so sublime. 

Light as a dragonfly’s wing,

Yet laden with the weight of time. 

It singes and stings like the frigid rain

But heals like the sunlit dusk.

It jolts the heart out of atrophy

And sets the mind aflame.

I must cling on a little longer,

Till the last sliver of it disappears

When will I feel its warmth again?

Only the tyrant called time can answer. 

“Oh, you fool!” Screams the tyrant

Learn from the tiny red beast.

Cease your vain attempts to slay me,

Let go and your troubles shall fall silent.

I won’t lend my ears to a trickster

Who fiddles with fickle lives.

Those were the words I uttered,

But within I was not certain. 

Perhaps I should pay attention

And callous the soul to change 

Let loose of one and wrangle the next,

Until the moments cease succession.