21.09.2013 10.45
I don't know why the sea is so flat, level, equal, always a permanent line. I ponder, who creates and maintains the balance between the land, sea and sky?
It is but three weeks after summer holiday, but winter's paws are already creeping into the air, the sea. With no blue sky, the sea loses its luminousness. It doesn't shine, it doesn't smile. It is just there: waves pushing in or out, tides rising and falling. Perhaps the sea is waiting for someone? It does not dare stop its motion, because it does not want to be forgotten. I'm here, it says.
There are a few families here, not more than five. Children are tiny comparing to the massive rocks where I'm sitting. I feel obliged to stare at them, to listen to their laughter. It is their presence that gives magic to the mid-september beach. So high-pitched are their voices that I thought, for a second, they came from sea gulls. Children are fragile and powerless, with no experience to gear them up. But they are the only ones brave enough to bash into the ocean. They still don't know how small and insignificant humans are. A mild wave drowns.
I move on, repositioning myself to another rock. This time, I face a huge crowd of rocks not bigger than the size of my backpack. I stand at a high point, trying to imagine a "multitudine". A lot of round-headed fans wearing a green t-shirt are watching the show of waves, presented by the sea. Some wear a fig: long and floppy like hippy style. It is great to have them by me; they reassure me, accompany me. I love how they don't move.
I get curious, and walk forward, trying to stay closer to the sea. This is when I realise, the sea has been appraoching me all along. The rocks that I had been stepping on, now dissolve into the might sea. Then I think back to a quarter of an hour ago: my feet was stepping on cold damp sand, but nothing reminded me of my holiday. I looked back, and found out that my footprints were so light that they hardly left an evidence of my presence. And now, all of this are washed away, away to the far far end.
11.30
The world, this garden, is a dough of pandan cake before the ingredients are mixed. Brown, yellow, green, grey, white all over the place. It like it non-mixed, or else the layers would have become nothing: what, depthness, variaty, flavour will blend into a disgusting still world. Yes, the world is never stil, never motionless, and never quiet - to my liking. When I, lying on the damp grass, stare at the leaves swaying in the wind, I miss the motion of the cloud far beyond. I never capture everything, but they have always existed.
Again, I feel sleepiness catching up with me, trying to shut down my consciousness. My head, too tired and stiff, decides to stay in one position - and this is why I stare unblingkingly. Grass after grass after grass after grass; green, of the same colour but never mixes up. What makes the grass an individual "thing"? I mean, each patch of grass smells and looks the same, but I still know where I am.
Yellow fallen leaves lie on the soft grass bed unconsciously. Just like wrinkled, twisted, dry old men, who can no longer stand straight, are in comfort being carried by the younger ones. They only move when the wind blows trying to wake the world up. Autumn is not supposed to be dead and quiet.
And I see it. I used "it", because it is the only one standing out of the crowd. In an environment dominated by different shades of green, it wears a clean white dress. It sways with the breezes, smiles at the shyest sun. Why are you here? Being the only lady in a crowd of young strong men - it must feel special. The gazes of adoration, awe, joy and jealousy directed at it, have made it stand up straight and present its pedals proudly. But it is lonely I guess. Isn't it? When there is no one as elegant as beautiful as itself, it is all alone. All alone standing taller than others, it is slapped, kicked, pushed by the roaring wind.
The sky is a bit too grey for me, I think.
留言列表
