Swing
The boy stared blankly at the swing. The playground was all but silence except for the incessant buzz of nocturnal insects. This very place was where some of the most important female figures in his life had accompanied him. Perhaps, just perhaps, also the very place where they left him.
Now the boy was quite uncertain. He was uncertain if he could pick up the loose ends where they left him at and start things anew. Almost immediately, he knew the answer. Life was a continuum rather than bits and pieces of unresolved issues. How could the present be detached from the reference of yesterday’s past? No doubt about it. The yester years of youth, innocence and dreams were long gone, never to return again. But he was once young. He was once innocent. He was once a dreamer. In so far as he once possessed them, in so far as he once knew what they were, perhaps these intangible assets were still rooted within him.
His drunkard soul spoke no words. Anger and grief had no language. Tears had no voice even if they really did sing a chorus of sadness. Because he was sad, angry, grievous, drunk and crying; he no longer expressed himself. No longer could he communicate with the external world… and the dis-communication was bilateral. His speech was condescendence, his language was detached, his words were misunderstood. But he could shoulder the blame. Its weight was no longer heavy. Quite naturally, he knew he was at fault. But the disappointment he was no longer bothered him.
The swing was lifeless. There was just no momentum. The notions of the lover, the friends, the family, however, were swinging wildly in his head. He knew they cared as much as he did. What he did not know, was how to tell them that his world was supported by an abject bitterness which had just came crumbling down. He could rationalise why he was embittered and why he was sad. But logic and theory had no place in the realms of emotions. They were meant to be felt, not meant to be spoken of, nor discussed for that matter. Feelings were fleeting, yet concrete. They were the pillars of vibrancy which he thought formed the foundations of his life.
Alas! He was not thinking. His bleeding mind was dysfunctional at best, and the wounds, both fresh and old, were corroding his soul. He was not thinking. He was arguing. Sadly, the things which he was arguing for were matters which had not even happened. His arguments stemmed from his immense desire not to be wronged by his world. Sadly, in thus doing so, he was doing himself the greatest injustice of trying to foresee and intervene in things which did not happen nor happened yet. Hallucination.
It was almost as if he saw the swing moving. Which of course, it did not. Good Lord, forgive him. He knows not what he is doing. But then again, if there was one thing in the world he needed now, it couldn’t be forgiveness. He could not give it, and therefore had surrendered every right to receive it. In retrospect, he never needed it before. So why was he so keen to acquire it now?
Casually, he walked over to the swing and plodded gently on it. He wanted it to move. And now, it really was moving.
Now the boy was quite uncertain. He was uncertain if he could pick up the loose ends where they left him at and start things anew. Almost immediately, he knew the answer. Life was a continuum rather than bits and pieces of unresolved issues. How could the present be detached from the reference of yesterday’s past? No doubt about it. The yester years of youth, innocence and dreams were long gone, never to return again. But he was once young. He was once innocent. He was once a dreamer. In so far as he once possessed them, in so far as he once knew what they were, perhaps these intangible assets were still rooted within him.
His drunkard soul spoke no words. Anger and grief had no language. Tears had no voice even if they really did sing a chorus of sadness. Because he was sad, angry, grievous, drunk and crying; he no longer expressed himself. No longer could he communicate with the external world… and the dis-communication was bilateral. His speech was condescendence, his language was detached, his words were misunderstood. But he could shoulder the blame. Its weight was no longer heavy. Quite naturally, he knew he was at fault. But the disappointment he was no longer bothered him.
The swing was lifeless. There was just no momentum. The notions of the lover, the friends, the family, however, were swinging wildly in his head. He knew they cared as much as he did. What he did not know, was how to tell them that his world was supported by an abject bitterness which had just came crumbling down. He could rationalise why he was embittered and why he was sad. But logic and theory had no place in the realms of emotions. They were meant to be felt, not meant to be spoken of, nor discussed for that matter. Feelings were fleeting, yet concrete. They were the pillars of vibrancy which he thought formed the foundations of his life.
Alas! He was not thinking. His bleeding mind was dysfunctional at best, and the wounds, both fresh and old, were corroding his soul. He was not thinking. He was arguing. Sadly, the things which he was arguing for were matters which had not even happened. His arguments stemmed from his immense desire not to be wronged by his world. Sadly, in thus doing so, he was doing himself the greatest injustice of trying to foresee and intervene in things which did not happen nor happened yet. Hallucination.
It was almost as if he saw the swing moving. Which of course, it did not. Good Lord, forgive him. He knows not what he is doing. But then again, if there was one thing in the world he needed now, it couldn’t be forgiveness. He could not give it, and therefore had surrendered every right to receive it. In retrospect, he never needed it before. So why was he so keen to acquire it now?
Casually, he walked over to the swing and plodded gently on it. He wanted it to move. And now, it really was moving.
posted by sUmmEr heAt at 6:43 AM
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