Slowly a day, a person, a moment retreats into memory and becomes Past. Even memory possesses a rear inner compartment which falls into time, hastily and smoothly, beckoned by the latter’s impatient ticking. Time must be obsessed with cleanliness – or its equivalent, Future, for it is always making space by pushing something or other back.
An Artist steps into a field of tall golden dandelions, the air electrically blue and filled with fleeting warmth. It is spring and everything is fleeting. Considering how long each season lasts- exactly three months, spring of all is so impatient that we think of it only in terms of blossoms, themselves too impatient to stay long. They won’t last a quarter that long. He passes into an orchard where a tree of such shade grows as if night’s blue has mingled with the moon’s silver and come to blossom. The lilac’s fragrance is sense-numbing.
Perhaps that’s why dispersed thoughts now enter, one in the wake of another- scenes from previous lives, dreams, phantoms – bricks stacked hodge-podge into a single Tower. Its top remains hidden and always surrounded by thick cloud coverage, rain, fogs, and other unnatural occurrences – considering the real weather above. Once in a while different characters stand out on cornices of the foggy Tower, some faces blank and expressionless, others still causing a light, pushing heartbeat. The next moment a cloud passes, veiling one and uncovering another frozen piece of architecture or statue. The pastime amuses the Artist, and for a long while he can’t turn his gaze from the ghostly scenery above.
He looks down. Sees his feet. Strange, unfamiliar child’s feet. How come? Grey-haired body-less seeds surround him instead of golden dandy lion heads, helpless, fainting, given to the first will of the wind.
Cries the child: where art thou gone? I have but looked away for a moment’s blink!
Exploded by an invisible hand, the Tower shakes and falls vehemently, however silently, at the sight. The dust is invisible but great. Meanwhile, the surrounding paysage shifts into focus.
Rain has showered clean the orchard, washed away the last white and pink flowers. There is no grudge, however – everyone knows it’s making room for a greater something. In the corner, the moon-kissed bush, its last petals scattered, mingles with grass, daily pressed by blind feet. Humbled, it stands in wait for fall to pull at its common green dress.
Wonders the Artist: how can anything as beautiful be barren?
Head bowed, feet small, he walks away. With each passing step, Towers spring back up behind and around him and provide sought after shade in the hot summer sun. The landscape disappears. A quiet Pilgrim Child is seen slowly retreating into someone’s deep memory.