As the eyes well up for the second time tonight; as I sit listening to this unassuming little track by Indian Ocean; as, well, the universe proceeds onwards with its continuing existential journey, the night slowly grows, indiscernible to the lay eye. It is not a moment of joy, sorrow, angst or surprise. Nay, it's the fabric used in dreams. The night plays with my longing being, revealing little bits of her mysterious, alluring self. It plays along with a tune known only to her. I don't know how it will end, but know only of the path we've crossed thus far. And such windings have never been cast forth before, as what have been treaded upon these last few existences; for in this short span, I have relived every instance of magic ever encountered thus far, a coming together of all that I have seen, heard and been.
The night, I have realized during this journey, is at the heart of my idea of human life. The day, with all its activity, hustle bustle and streamlined energy, must end in the night, criss-crossing through the straits of twilight. Thus, for all its life and living, the day with its inevitable retreat to darker hinterlands, stands out as the very epitome of mortality. All that begins must come to an end, however grinding, sudden or stretched it may be. The human spirit, though awakening with the Sun, finds itself alone with the setting of the star, for it is not yet prepared to let go of the strings. And it is in that moment of part helplessness part exasperation, that one is greeted by the gods of darkness. At first unfamiliar, and then pleasantly affable, one soon finds oneself sharing with the night spirits a spirit or two of the old Scots.
The night takes one in her unthinking, uncalculating arms, and gifts each thinking eye it's daily dose of immortality. Indeed so, for the night never really ends, and even if it must, it does so with a dignified sense of duty, purpose and meaning. No matter how hopeless the hour, one sits, stares, thinks, wakes and sleeps with the continued anticipation for an extension ad infinitum to the blissful inertia of the night. Nothing is impossible for the night. Man comes out of his envelope, after all the stamping and passing on of the day, to finally reveal oneself to all concerned; not excluding his Creator, Destroyer, and all the elements in between. Perhaps most importantly, he reveals his self to himself, or perhaps his shadow in the all edifying moonlight does the needful. For it is the stillness that lends meaning to the blinding pace of the mortal self; the silence sings songs that bless the artiste with his colours, notes and beats. What is, what isn't, and all that is dreamt, hoped and aspired for, take wings in the infinite expanses of the night.
We welcome the Sun, bid it goodbye, and then welcome the night. Rarely is it that we find ourselves in the distinguished position bidding the never-ending night farewell. Perhaps this adds to the mystique surrounding the little beauty. Further, whenever it is that the night passes on the baton to the still waking day, the overwhelming sense of creation and awakening overarchs and overwhelms all thought. Thus the night never dies, it only makes place for the Sun King to arrive, bringing with him the seed of all life. Sleep and demise remain as muted in their countenance as they had been thus far. And the human spirit prepares for another long trip away from the self, kissed on the cheeks as it gets done with its packing for the journey.
In the night, as one welcomes back the spirit, the song plays again; at times concerted, at times whimsical; at times speaking, at times listening, but alive, breathing at all times! As one breathes in the scent of her flowing tresses, the embrace feels like an eternity. One closes one's eyes unable to contain the myriad creations, disparate yet united, bursting into existence. Time and space reduce themselves to words on paper, like the misconceptions of a senile mind, and I, I find myself alive... at last.
The night, I have realized during this journey, is at the heart of my idea of human life. The day, with all its activity, hustle bustle and streamlined energy, must end in the night, criss-crossing through the straits of twilight. Thus, for all its life and living, the day with its inevitable retreat to darker hinterlands, stands out as the very epitome of mortality. All that begins must come to an end, however grinding, sudden or stretched it may be. The human spirit, though awakening with the Sun, finds itself alone with the setting of the star, for it is not yet prepared to let go of the strings. And it is in that moment of part helplessness part exasperation, that one is greeted by the gods of darkness. At first unfamiliar, and then pleasantly affable, one soon finds oneself sharing with the night spirits a spirit or two of the old Scots.
The night takes one in her unthinking, uncalculating arms, and gifts each thinking eye it's daily dose of immortality. Indeed so, for the night never really ends, and even if it must, it does so with a dignified sense of duty, purpose and meaning. No matter how hopeless the hour, one sits, stares, thinks, wakes and sleeps with the continued anticipation for an extension ad infinitum to the blissful inertia of the night. Nothing is impossible for the night. Man comes out of his envelope, after all the stamping and passing on of the day, to finally reveal oneself to all concerned; not excluding his Creator, Destroyer, and all the elements in between. Perhaps most importantly, he reveals his self to himself, or perhaps his shadow in the all edifying moonlight does the needful. For it is the stillness that lends meaning to the blinding pace of the mortal self; the silence sings songs that bless the artiste with his colours, notes and beats. What is, what isn't, and all that is dreamt, hoped and aspired for, take wings in the infinite expanses of the night.
We welcome the Sun, bid it goodbye, and then welcome the night. Rarely is it that we find ourselves in the distinguished position bidding the never-ending night farewell. Perhaps this adds to the mystique surrounding the little beauty. Further, whenever it is that the night passes on the baton to the still waking day, the overwhelming sense of creation and awakening overarchs and overwhelms all thought. Thus the night never dies, it only makes place for the Sun King to arrive, bringing with him the seed of all life. Sleep and demise remain as muted in their countenance as they had been thus far. And the human spirit prepares for another long trip away from the self, kissed on the cheeks as it gets done with its packing for the journey.
In the night, as one welcomes back the spirit, the song plays again; at times concerted, at times whimsical; at times speaking, at times listening, but alive, breathing at all times! As one breathes in the scent of her flowing tresses, the embrace feels like an eternity. One closes one's eyes unable to contain the myriad creations, disparate yet united, bursting into existence. Time and space reduce themselves to words on paper, like the misconceptions of a senile mind, and I, I find myself alive... at last.
The night shall take me
Where life takes birth and sings
As I sink into my own void
As a wisp of smoke slowly fades.
Where life takes birth and sings
As I sink into my own void
As a wisp of smoke slowly fades.
