Saturday, November 29, 2008
Bubbles and cyanide: a paradox?
I wish to go back to the days when a bubble blown with care free thoughts glistened in the sun and made my day. I yearn for the days when I never failed to be enraptured by the dewy beauty of roses. I envision past days of listless lying on the sofa and thinking how big everything around me is. And being excited when a familiar, beloved face made loving noises and coo-ed my name...I wish i was a child again. No one can ever perceive the world through a child's eyes. It strips the hypocrisy, pain, falsehoods, dogma and unnecessary complexities...it lays the world bare, an artist's impression of the reality as it is without prejudice-true to its primal existence.
This bareness is exhilarating, breath taking,like shards of truth slicing hard into flesh yet the child's dimensions allow only receptory sensations akin to the soft purr of velvet against skin. Truth and clarity are fresh faced visitors welcomed with tiny embracing arms smudged with crayons and mud. Peace is a permanent resident, requiring no visas, taxes or any of those tiresome government documents to verify it's content lodging in the sunny dell of mirth. Curiosity is at its peak;it fledges its magnificent wings and is soon airborne amidst fluffy white clouds and a slowly shuffling seascape of cotton waves and silver sand dunes. Nothing ever lost its spark, a frog pond, a ribbon wrapped over an ancestor's memorabilia of love gone but not lost, a brown paper bag with a bulging peanut butter and jelly sandwich sealed off with mom's kisses. It does not feel the pain so addictive in the adult's world where narcissism and self hate go hand in hand, justified into daily human norm by Freud and others.
The harsh ambiance of the stark adult's world has no time or patience for the child's world. If the child's world and the adult's world were to collide, the adult's world would shrink in hostility into a brooding black hole, a cornered mangy dog starved of love, beaten and trampled on to fulfill the manifestation of its name. Yet it would remain, a gaping wound on the gradients of innocence and happiness yet to be tainted with materialism. I can imagine the wound throbbing and thrashing like a speared eel awaiting its sombre death on a spit fire. Soon the mists of confusion would seep out, a cyanide genocide of every child's Once-upon-a-time....