Ripple

The Moon had unveiled its shiny visage and the stars had lost their demeanor and to eye it seemed as if a million gems were merely blinking beside their mother’s brightly opened eye. On the darkest canvas known to creation, the Moon could be seen relishing the fruit of its own mirror extant upon the illusive bod of water. Beside the vague yet astral image of darkness, an imitation of my artless mien could be beheld. I stood on the verge of my reflection’s embrace, lost in my fruitless thoughts, when in my horizon I glimpsed a birthing ripple. Confused and restless, like me, it spread its essence to the extents of every prospect, leaving in its steps a memory of chaos and randomness, and its small prominence with courage and insistence influenced every pattern of its mother’s illustrious eminence, coercing her to embrace its chaotic manner.

The history unfolds an image much akin to that untouched body of water; calm and placid awaiting the arrival of a single revolting pulse, whose echoes shall resound from the encaged walls until their grace shall succumb before its brilliance. Its melodious song for one beat shall enshroud the whole creation with the random veils and uncertain shadows and inspire an idea to open its eyes and change its own nature with each surpassing of limits until its manner shall give birth to Man, to Earth, to chaos, to order, to war, to peace, to conflict, to unity, to hatred and love, to darkness, to light, to good and evil.

In that chaotic and illusive world, amongst the remnants forsaken and forgotten by ever remembering time, a mind took life and in greatness basked much alike to a dayflower basking in the beauteous daystar’s gleam yet its greatness was nothing afore the designs and ideas that nurtured in it. Soon, it crushed the weakling thoughts, the trifling beliefs and soared with eagle’s broadened wings and piercing sight above maturity’s open domains reaping greatness from every promising yield until one idea from a thousand inherited its immensity, its vastness, it profundity, its calmness and transcended the paramount of greatness, spreading happiness and peace far and wide making every perception of every nature of every age see its own creation of love, of passion, of joy and laughter, of harmony, of beauty, of splendor and peace; creating thoughts filled with fragrance of these sadly disremembered relics of mind and heart.

Standing there still, looking at the same reflection of a young boy, in his early youth with soft and innocent eyes, a soul devoid of any immorality and a heart filled with angelic purity, I wonder at the nature of his mind. Can so young a garden become an heir to flowers eternal? It is a desert; your mind, having no bounds or depths, it is barren, devoid of beauty and richness but ideas bring upon a revolution in its nature, they are like the sweetest wine that cannot you’re your temperance away but give your mind the most dulcet taste of beauty and splendor, they are the seeds, the roots, the stems, the shoots of every plantlet in the beautiful grove known as mind and the fruit of their toil and hardship is unmistakable when a mind opens its eyes, after eons spent in dark hallways adorning purblind mirrors, to a welcoming dawn of opulence and solicitude.

Great ideas are seeds not matured in great men but in great minds. Answering without hesitation, questioning without fear and then delving into the answer with greatest curiosity; this is the manner of a great mind. Age is insignificant for ideas are immortal, adolescence and oldness are nothing themselves but ideas. Infertile are those lands that have nothing in them to be nurtured, to be grown, to be sought, that have enmity in their souls towards the slightest erudite sign, and with pride and fake knowledge their surface is dry. Minds embracing greatness are neither the fruit of wealth nor the scion of arrogance, they are mazes with walls of such wisdom that their knowing contains nothing.

As my feather of thought battered in the timeful storms passed through the archway beyond which laid, still and sad, every event, it perceived every chapter of recreation carved on the birthstone of an idea and every season of blissful consequence, floating on the vintage of happy or mournful thought, was embracing its existence in the intellect of a single notion. As I wandered blindly in the vast and astral halls of history, the feather’s thousand tiny arms rose up in question as to the dawn of such an existence as nonexistent as an idea.

Searching for an answer I came upon an idea nurturing in the curiosity’s uncertain bosom, like a seedling. Every question that, by my judgment, passed the doors of thought or diction transmuted that seedling into a sapling, until the degree of transmutation reached all possible extents. I saw the truth in its shadow, I saw it constrained in the realm of unfeeling, it was hollow in manner, crude in expression and indelicate in conduct until in its heartless enclosure, the sapling of emotion was seeded by my heart’s supplest hand, until its essence brightened as my heart became its heart, with feelings unknown and unfelt. Only then I felt its true power and with me also every heart that throbbed, every feeling that felt and every soul that existed. This was the true state of greatness.


The Weaver

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

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4 thoughts on “Ripple

  1. A poor man’s Nietzsche; overwritten–way too many abjectives–With a sewed sense of the universe as being The Weaver ‘ s simplistic playground…

    Liked by 1 person

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