Golden

Greetings. I’ve been expecting you.

Long have we not been on for a journey. Much until now have I found a residence to rest my mind within. A journey, indeed, but more of a talk during a walk. For so many times have the journeys taken place; inspiring as they were, yet transient. Just as memorable ones do not retain for long, so will not the journeys lie permanently in my mind. My vision enlightened, my knowledge enriched, yet loneliness has well grown at the pace of the journey, for that it ultimately ends, and we will separate. So will it be today, my friend. Though we relish the sights observed, the meditation conducted, they do not last forever.

They will not persist, yet they will be remembered. Time cannot be reproduced, but can be documented. Difference is what makes them distinctive from each other, so that when light shines on them, each depicts different colors. Much before have you had the night walk, during which we have reclaimed the lost pieces that took place before – those whose name were the Celebration.

Well have we again stepped on this path, yet of a different path. Shall you walk through the streets that have not been emptied by the coldness in the dark. I see cars. I see pedestrians. I see those vines of roses crawling upon the red walls of the buildings aside, transparent walls of glass fading in blue, in yellow, in the color of streetlamps.

A quiet street indeed, yet busy as always. My friend, why would you take the journey upon here? Have I seen the mood and sights for meditation, yet this stack of elements will not fulfill its uniqueness. Must have you come for other reasons, those unwitnessed, those forgotten.

I have come in search of my past. By the noise of car horns and figures of pedestrians, well have I noticed the traces of my past. It was by the time of therapy that I came over this place to fuel my meditation. Devastated, my mind was. Everything had I lost, my mind crippled, my skin charred. I hardly advanced my steps forward, only to fall of on the hardened floor of cement. It was by the time I realized that many were lost in time, not being able to once again witnessed. What only remained was a lone man standing on his own, gazing toward nonexistence.

Ah, it has come. The very turning road of the first encounter with this street, yet covered by a thin cloth of yellowish light. Busy as always, filled with roaring cars, but nearly muted by the quietness of night. Alas, even the lost projection of mine has fallen to the far, unreachable past. Now I’m walking in a reversed direction compared with I did before. A reversal, indeed, but of what implications? A reversal, streams flowing backwards; a reversal, tears ascend. A redemption of one, indeed, but could also be fallacious, for that every wrong step cannot be reversed, and the damages are permanent. A reversal of time. Ah, time, how nostalgic.

My physical self was born nearly seventeen years ago, a considerable yet minimal period. But from whence did the consciousness originate? Not was I able to conceive images of thoughts from the earliest day of living as a being, so will it remain unbeknownst by myself. Should I say that consciousness did not embrace its arrival until seven years before, where the artistic shock took its place in my deep mind.

Time has never been a recognizable element in my cognition. Notwithstanding its nonexistent nature in physics, even a lone man shall not experience the extent of passed time. Indeed, has it been years; dunes of sand become weathered, flattened by the wind, a year by a year. Yet it feels as transient, an instant, as if piles of ice melt into nothingness within a short brief, unwitnessed by the experiences of the man.

I have stepped so far, but by what traces? Footprints eroded with dirt and sand, paths overgrown by grasses and weeds, pasts untouched. Alas, impatient I was, so ignorant. In a haste of vision, at the expense of lost times; those were the days where I should have stayed for longer than a brief, lest they would be erased from my mind. Now I’m but a paralyzed loner who stands in reminiscence of his misted past.

But shall I, as an entity, exist in any moment, I stand here for a reason. For that I have bear the courage to persist myself in this moment of time, I have not come for nothing. Indeed, I could see the lights glowing in the dark; should it glow for one more second, will the lost one find his warmth by the coldness of the air. I could see the leaves shivering with summer breeze; should it dance for a slight more, will the thirsted soul perceive his direction toward the future. And if one becomes so misdirected and lost, must he think over the meaning of his presence, of his existence.

Ah, the question arises. Light exists to glow its warmth; leaves are present in their directions. Well have dusts been flying across the air; well has a drop of water contributed to the sea. Yet without the dusts, none will witness a difference; yet without the drop, the sea is as large and as wide as before. Pathetic dusts, pathetic drop of water. Am I ever among these failures? Am I ever a particle of dust, a drop of water, whose existence is not witnessed by any else?

Look ahead. Streetlamps, yellowish rays of lights; they stab my eye, they hurt my vision. The color of warmth yet becomes the murderer of the lone one, for that his eye could no longer withstand the strong emissions of vibrancy, and that he ultimately falls under his own aspirations. Alas, the searcher of light is killed by the everlasting light. And he loses his balance, and he falls onto the ground of cement – none but a resurgence of his past. Look how crippled he is, look how deformed he becomes! Mock on him, for that no one is aside empathizing over a wretched failure!

But, my friend, will there not be an answer toward your confusion? You are so unsettled by the grief of time. For that light illuminates the place, it stabs your eye so hard. Yet much have you stated that light has served its warmth. So has it been serving the leaves, dusts, drops of water. Look up above your head, my friend! Your vision is stabbed because it is narrow; only when you choose to change your perspective toward the matters will the pain be relieved. Look up above your head, my friend! Leaves awaits you, leaves brightened by the yellow, warm lights. Lift by the streetlamp, they are golden. So let the warmth cover yourself upon.

Failed one does not dare to rise his head, for that the vision only deserves the lowest sight of ground and mice. But when, by any accident, he raises his eye above the horizon, things he had never seen before start to show up. A cluster of leaves surrounding the yellow, bright lamp, covered by the scattered ray of light, covered in yellow, covered in gold. They are golden.

Ultimately will the journey embrace its end – what I stated at the beginning. Yet only at the end will we be enlightened in our knowledge. Only by the time of staring beneath the leaves, will I know that they are golden. Shall we return, only for this time, accompanied by those splendid ones. Bright. Yellow. Warm. Golden.