Three Songs and Thousands of Segregated Is

Three Songs and Thousands of Segregated I’s

 

A man walks the earth. He walks long hours amongst the fields and tired of walking, he swims in the lake and the lake rests before a mountain. The air is crisp and the sun is bright. Winds bring into motion some tender leaves and a bird sings not one but three love songs all at once.

The mountain hears the songs and in his age, dares even now to stir and stretch his bulk and shiver along to – what a beautiful melody it is! He hears it originate in the bird, as if by a daring impulsive – an inspiration maybe – sees it float, almost dance across the late day’s sun warmed sky, to envelop him in his sombreness. It seems almost as if the bird sang one song only for him, to cure him of his stillness.

Yet another song descends down, further down yet, beneath the surface, where it is dark and moist and warm and things as they stand are full of potential; and there, it strokes, tenderly, —  a seed. The tiniest of seeds, upon being summoned awakens and at once demands nothing but to see the light for himself, to feel the wind and to grow up, up, into the world. And so a rose is born.

A third song also reaches the man. The man now sits and is quiet. He appears more solemn than the mountain – is it possible even! The song dances around him, thousands of tiny glowing vibrating melodies seeking entry, seeking to share themselves with the man. But, they cannot find entry. It is as if he is closed to them, speaks a different language or perhaps is he lost in thought? Again and again, entry is sought and thousand tiny melodies, as if in the throes of fever, suffering to communicate themselves and unable to merge with him, become weaker and sink, settle and come to die in his shadow.

The man for his part sighs and suffers and knows the source of his anguish. He knows it well and even now is confronting it. Why do I not care! he asks. Why do I feel…nothing! Is it even possible! To feel nothing…to walk this earth and to…where is my passion! he cries out. If only he could have his heart so aching with life as to, as to…how beautiful it would surely be. To feel deeply, fervently and to can’t help but laugh and sing and run in the field, the forest, amongst the beasts and to give it all to passion…to give it all to life, to live…and to share himself utterly and completely with each and every being. Yet, how, how to feel and how to care and how to even begin to think about passion? If only there was a way, a simple switch or command or gesture or prayer…he would do it all, to even once experience bliss, to marvel at a flower or be conquered by a song. A single song. Who am I, where have I gone wrong and how to fix..me, he questions.

A man walks this earth but he walks as if apart, as if in pain; lost and wandering. The trees and the birds and the flowers and the mountains, they look upon him and are astound. Never have they seen such a being so alone. He can’t even be happy with himself, they whisper. Does he not know himself? Does he not feel himself to be a living human being? Is there not constant recognition of the foots attachment to the leg and the legs connection to the waist and up, up to the chest wherein beats a tender heart and  is the foot then not also connected to the neck and the head…and does the head not think of the foot and call it I? They cannot imagine otherwise, for the foot and the leg and the chest and the heart and the neck and the brain, they need to feel themselves part of the I and to communicate as if by one purpose. Anything other seems but an absurdity.

The flower knows it is a flower and it feels itself from petals to roots. It knows itself through and through. The mountain says I to even the tiniest of crevice and excludes not even a grain of dust. The bird sings and its song comes not from its mouth, or its head or even his heart but has been shaped by nothing less but the whole. And it is beautiful.

The man, a unity by nature, knows it not and is fractured. He is dispersed within himself, thousands of pieces of segregated I’s are lost within themselves and how then can they form a whole. And how then can the man find passion? It is as if passion is just ahead, just out of reach but as of yet incomprehensible. It is as if passion and feeling are dispersed amongst the thousands of I’s and the man tastes nothing but the bitter longing for a sensation that all his inners fervently tell him exists but that nonetheless remains elusive.

How then to find passion, to feel deeply and to care and to give it all to life, to live?….And the man walks on and is walking still and the earth shelters him and observes and waits patiently for man to one day find himself. What a celebration it then surely must be.

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