"If He resides within,
Why do I seek Him
In the wilderness without?"
He abandoned that poem, unable to proceed. That's how the saints seemed to have sung of God. He wished to, too, but could not find himself inspired enough. He decided there was nothing to be inspired about, that it was all a sham. Otherwise, wouldn't he have experienced it himself?
"Why is it He
And not She
Or even It?
Why look up
If he truly
Is right next to us?"
He stopped midway, not knowing what next. He sat pensively, wondering if fire and brimstone would end his journey before it began. Again and again he read the poems he loved so much - the total surrender, the love, and even desire, and felt his hair stand. He tried hard to get into the skin of a woman pining for a man, and though he could feel lustful thoughts, he felt none of the devotion the devout feel for the divine.
He grimaced, but instantly, his expression changed. A lady crossed his line of vision, and he felt poetry flow more freely:
"Of hills and valleys, what shall I speak
Of the meandering curves, tapering at the feet
Of the bows and piercing arrows so sweet
That stitch our hearts together for eternity..."
Of love and desire, lust and romance, anger and pain, fear and joys: his pen brought alive every emotion, but not that one. It didn't exist, or, wouldn't he - the king of emotions - have felt it? He had become the king of emotions, a title bestowed on him by the world, at least, his countrymen. They hummed his words as it played out from every radio, every TV in the state. His compatriots in other countries wept as the song struck a chord in their hearts. He knew about the toil behind the meals people enjoyed; he knew the intimate details of every warp and weft that adorned the bodies; he understood the tender fingers that crafted beautiful designs... He knew of the mother's healing touch, father's protective hand, brother's friendly fight, sister's sweet sacrifice, friend's protective hug... Was there any emotion he did not understand?
No, what he couldn't understand did not exist.
So he was amused when one of his fans wrote an ode to his poetic talent, offering her own humble words that were mere dust at the feet of his magnificiant diamonds and pearls. But the initial amusement faded and was replaced by curiosity at her choice of words. The phrasing was curiously similar to those of the saints he had so envied and now despised. On an impulse, he met her.
But even being with her day in and day out did nothing to evoke that spark. Or, furstratingly, to kill hers. At odds they stood. She silently steering their life-boat whipped up raging storms in his heart.
The storm raged over the unsuspecting, the shining diamonds of his words turning to shards that pierced tender hearts. His pearls of wisdom tasted like the rotten oysters, and could not be digested.
His own disbelief, his inability to believe, turned him sour and turned the world sour. The poetry turned bittersweet, his pen became the sword that he tilted at the windmills.
His quixotic battle brought no solace. And finally, he stabbed her, stabbed her unshakable faith, for there was no one left to hurt.
And yet she stood, simply by her faith. For, she sang:
"If He resides within,
Why do I seek Him
In the wilderness without?"
Why do I seek Him
In the wilderness without?"
He abandoned that poem, unable to proceed. That's how the saints seemed to have sung of God. He wished to, too, but could not find himself inspired enough. He decided there was nothing to be inspired about, that it was all a sham. Otherwise, wouldn't he have experienced it himself?
"Why is it He
And not She
Or even It?
Why look up
If he truly
Is right next to us?"
He stopped midway, not knowing what next. He sat pensively, wondering if fire and brimstone would end his journey before it began. Again and again he read the poems he loved so much - the total surrender, the love, and even desire, and felt his hair stand. He tried hard to get into the skin of a woman pining for a man, and though he could feel lustful thoughts, he felt none of the devotion the devout feel for the divine.
He grimaced, but instantly, his expression changed. A lady crossed his line of vision, and he felt poetry flow more freely:
"Of hills and valleys, what shall I speak
Of the meandering curves, tapering at the feet
Of the bows and piercing arrows so sweet
That stitch our hearts together for eternity..."
Of love and desire, lust and romance, anger and pain, fear and joys: his pen brought alive every emotion, but not that one. It didn't exist, or, wouldn't he - the king of emotions - have felt it? He had become the king of emotions, a title bestowed on him by the world, at least, his countrymen. They hummed his words as it played out from every radio, every TV in the state. His compatriots in other countries wept as the song struck a chord in their hearts. He knew about the toil behind the meals people enjoyed; he knew the intimate details of every warp and weft that adorned the bodies; he understood the tender fingers that crafted beautiful designs... He knew of the mother's healing touch, father's protective hand, brother's friendly fight, sister's sweet sacrifice, friend's protective hug... Was there any emotion he did not understand?
No, what he couldn't understand did not exist.
So he was amused when one of his fans wrote an ode to his poetic talent, offering her own humble words that were mere dust at the feet of his magnificiant diamonds and pearls. But the initial amusement faded and was replaced by curiosity at her choice of words. The phrasing was curiously similar to those of the saints he had so envied and now despised. On an impulse, he met her.
But even being with her day in and day out did nothing to evoke that spark. Or, furstratingly, to kill hers. At odds they stood. She silently steering their life-boat whipped up raging storms in his heart.
The storm raged over the unsuspecting, the shining diamonds of his words turning to shards that pierced tender hearts. His pearls of wisdom tasted like the rotten oysters, and could not be digested.
His own disbelief, his inability to believe, turned him sour and turned the world sour. The poetry turned bittersweet, his pen became the sword that he tilted at the windmills.
His quixotic battle brought no solace. And finally, he stabbed her, stabbed her unshakable faith, for there was no one left to hurt.
And yet she stood, simply by her faith. For, she sang:
"If He resides within,
Why do I seek Him
In the wilderness without?"
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