Conception / by Mrin A

A moment I remember.

Green leaf twinkles through a shifting breeze. Diamond studded trees. A most peculiar place. I am planked by water on four sides, nestled within a cocoon of wood and oar.

I remember having a thought. (How are thoughts had best?) It flickered momentarily. For an instance it was the only thought in this world. A thought, engulfed by water. A thought exposed to sunlight and shinning trees.

And then it was cast aside, between the cacophonies of things that were. Between the loud cackle of life’s lists of what and what-not to do next.

And I wondered then too, and I wonder as I write, is a thought enough? Where does this thought reside? Might I live with it in a land free from the chains of dirt and matter? Is a thought enough?

At night, as I slept, my thought grew. I did not know it, placid as I lay deep in slumber, I did not know it till I awoke the next day with an idea. This is how my idea came about. It was mine, I loved it. I had a pool of phosphorescent ideas, ideas that I treasured, and I laid this one down gently with the rest. Ideas were precious to me. Ideas belonged to me, to those moments and other like them, ideas fluttered like leaves in a gentle breeze. Ideas that subtly but surely transformed who I was and how I spent my days.

I remember the grey days, when, sitting at my desk at work I brought them to life. I wrote about my ideas, I sketched them out in watercolors, I experienced them within my mind, I traced their contours with half shut eyes. I sensed their presence as I steadily and constantly bore the tasks at hand, my present circumstance. I loved those drawings; I traced my fingers across those words. Like the fire of sherry they warmed my spirit. Infinite, perfect in form, light and frothy as gossamer strands. They belonged to me. But were they enough?

I travelled the world. I was a dream catcher. The days belonged to this world, but the nights were lived elsewhere, and every night I could spin my dreams to song. I sang them out loud, I wove harmonies around them, I whispered their tales softly in your ears, I celebrated my knowing, our knowing, of those worlds beyond time, beyond place, beyond purpose.

I brought the news back home. There is this place, I said, would you like to see it? Let me take you there. Perhaps that was my first error. You see, I believed in twilight. I believed that day and night would eventually reconcile. I believed that perhaps, being blessed by the gift of sight, I could help deliver a message.

Prove it, day said to night. Prove the shadows within which you reside. And night began to succumb to the heat of day. There were months where she could not speak on her dark grey light. There were months that the sun shone like blazing fire in the dead of night, nightless nights, we experienced. And the ideas, timid and fragile, succumbed like waxen wings to the anger of day. And there were nights where we couldn’t dream. One evening, I carefully opened up that box of precious ideas and they lay screaming, whimpering in agitated mutilations. And I too began to lose faith. With great effort and a chattering mind I worked them once again. I tried to cast them in stone, tried to mend them, reinvent them, reconstruct them. That is the architects job, they said. It is by weight that weight is measured. It is along the axis of day and not by nights cloudy, moody ways that this world is aligned. What is a drawing? What are but words? How can one weigh the weight of thought?

There came a moment, I remember quite well. Having been inspired in the past, having caught dreams and created dramas, I looked, with what should have been pride, with eyes wide open, at this cladded, clothed and coated place, and while I should have remembered that earlier precious moment beneath a diamond studded tree I did not. All that remained were its consequences. Objects roughly strewn along the struggle of day. Formed, fulfilled, awaiting death, orphaned and a little indifferent. Swept along the tide of stuff, with but a sparkle of a tinted past, the things I make turn soon to dust, relics, like forgotten princes that roam within defeated walls. Are they enough?