A boulder of granite with a golden furrow of sandstone rests across from the tree, whose roots stretch like a wrinkled carpet across the musky soil. A sky of azure hangs like a shroud.
Conflict is inherent for humanity as we attempt to draw together. Even the son from a mother’s womb, truly her flesh and blood, will rebel. Transience denies the very grounding that promises are made upon, such that lovers are autumn leaves that express a flurry of extravagance before withering. Why is it that we spread ourselves as far as possible when sitting in a subway train? Our privacy is sacrosanct, and yet we wallow in our loneliness, only to injure each other when we draw near. What a bag of contradictions, seeking meaning in achievement only to find them meaningless the moment they are achieved; abundantly enjoying that which is not in abundance.
A zephyr tingles the whispery air roots of the banyan tree, its leaves swaying in beat to a saturated sadness, suffocating.
Every civilization that has been, has ended, giving way to what we see today. For a little part of history we imagined an inevitable movement toward a historical endpoint, even a utopia blessed by the hand of technology. But lofty ideals usually topple toward the ground when they fly too high.
A raindrop, minute and mysterious, plops onto the sandstone furrow, a dark stain that for a moment seems to fuse with the color of the granite. Perhaps it is a bridge; or a tear in the rocky fabric.
The control that we so desire in our lives is an illusion, evidenced by our fragile minds and bodies that crumble to the fist of age and diseases. Granted, the control we do have has extended our lives and made us objectively healthier and safer. Nevertheless, our travels from birth to death are hardly free choices, and we take comfort in that fact. While we pursue control in our lives, we actually embrace the control of others. For, without control and limitations, we are doomed to be free.
Suddenly, the scuffle of sand punctures the silence. A gnarled tree branch creaks ominously.
Such philosophy wallows in its own depth, seeking to be consoled by meaning making.
A sigh and the... end. What now?
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