"For if a lover's face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home."
~Orhan Pamuk
Again the infinity of a blank page stares up at me. The familiar ache of silent echoes just out of reach gnaws at my senses. In this part of the world, at this time of the night, darkness seems to spill over endlessly from the relentless skies, as if from the grim peak of a celestial waterfall. At the receiving end of a forlorn night such as this, I can only hope to brave the intangible heat of an overwhelming Absence, whilst daring to disillusion myself into believing that I am beyond any hope of salvation. Like the last remaining tree barely alive in a forest consumed by fire, I shiver, desiccated, in the utter silence of death.
Oftentimes, I think to myself - I do not wish to merely live life, I wish to live its meaning. I then ask questions, but later realize that the inconsistency of my thirst does not merit true answers. I have often felt that the essence of my being, despite the depths to its anguish, falls just short of deserving the light of my disproportionate dreams. I searched for my answers in the kiss of a stranger, in the sound of wind, in a drop of rain, in the touch of music, in the dance of poetry - and each painful time, I was met with a crippling sense of loss. I sought, in desperation, for a redeeming colour, and the rainbow revealed to me the inadequacy of seven. Like a suicidal autumn leaf falling meekly to its own unceremonious demise, I saw myself plunge into the abyss of my own unsatisfied soul, irrevocably burning its edges as I descended my wretched way. The single, final journey to the shores of blessed anonymity.
So there I lay amidst other fallen leaves, burnt yellow and unremarkable, mediocre even in the eyes of my own colourless misery. I could almost hear the ghosts of my slain comrades as they exchanged stories of my errant rebellion to one another. Faithless, homeless, I felt like an impostor in the light of their unforgiving gaze. I shut out their whispers and I felt that familiar burn of the Absence flood my insides again, threatening to drown me in my own blood. I could hear the others desert me in the wind, and I decided to stay behind and live my aching thirst instead. I, an unworthy traitor to the very cause of life, lay buried beneath more falling specimens, revelling bitterly, yet again, in the self-imposed obscurity.The hollowness of the present was quickly devoured by the fallacy of time, and the past eventually became stories I told myself. Soon these stories turned into unfaithful memories that leaked away at the faucet of my consciousness.
Then one day, beyond any quantifiable measure of time or memory, a lost wanderer came floating by and picked me up ever so gingerly. The hardened weight of the Absence seemed to melt along the insides of my parched soul, healing my rusted edges. As if the lock of a kiss had sucked its way into my mouth in the intimate darkness, and drawn my pounding heart out of my throat. As if a drop of rain had engulfed me in its frozen bubble of blinding light. Imagine a painting of fire tearing through ice, and the metaphor still pales in comparison. I dared to open my eyes hesitantly, and my insides shook with a fervor unbeknownst to me.
I was staring at my answer. I was staring at the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The world is now slowly starting to feel like home.
~Orhan Pamuk
Again the infinity of a blank page stares up at me. The familiar ache of silent echoes just out of reach gnaws at my senses. In this part of the world, at this time of the night, darkness seems to spill over endlessly from the relentless skies, as if from the grim peak of a celestial waterfall. At the receiving end of a forlorn night such as this, I can only hope to brave the intangible heat of an overwhelming Absence, whilst daring to disillusion myself into believing that I am beyond any hope of salvation. Like the last remaining tree barely alive in a forest consumed by fire, I shiver, desiccated, in the utter silence of death.
Oftentimes, I think to myself - I do not wish to merely live life, I wish to live its meaning. I then ask questions, but later realize that the inconsistency of my thirst does not merit true answers. I have often felt that the essence of my being, despite the depths to its anguish, falls just short of deserving the light of my disproportionate dreams. I searched for my answers in the kiss of a stranger, in the sound of wind, in a drop of rain, in the touch of music, in the dance of poetry - and each painful time, I was met with a crippling sense of loss. I sought, in desperation, for a redeeming colour, and the rainbow revealed to me the inadequacy of seven. Like a suicidal autumn leaf falling meekly to its own unceremonious demise, I saw myself plunge into the abyss of my own unsatisfied soul, irrevocably burning its edges as I descended my wretched way. The single, final journey to the shores of blessed anonymity.
So there I lay amidst other fallen leaves, burnt yellow and unremarkable, mediocre even in the eyes of my own colourless misery. I could almost hear the ghosts of my slain comrades as they exchanged stories of my errant rebellion to one another. Faithless, homeless, I felt like an impostor in the light of their unforgiving gaze. I shut out their whispers and I felt that familiar burn of the Absence flood my insides again, threatening to drown me in my own blood. I could hear the others desert me in the wind, and I decided to stay behind and live my aching thirst instead. I, an unworthy traitor to the very cause of life, lay buried beneath more falling specimens, revelling bitterly, yet again, in the self-imposed obscurity.The hollowness of the present was quickly devoured by the fallacy of time, and the past eventually became stories I told myself. Soon these stories turned into unfaithful memories that leaked away at the faucet of my consciousness.
Then one day, beyond any quantifiable measure of time or memory, a lost wanderer came floating by and picked me up ever so gingerly. The hardened weight of the Absence seemed to melt along the insides of my parched soul, healing my rusted edges. As if the lock of a kiss had sucked its way into my mouth in the intimate darkness, and drawn my pounding heart out of my throat. As if a drop of rain had engulfed me in its frozen bubble of blinding light. Imagine a painting of fire tearing through ice, and the metaphor still pales in comparison. I dared to open my eyes hesitantly, and my insides shook with a fervor unbeknownst to me.
I was staring at my answer. I was staring at the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The world is now slowly starting to feel like home.
