2004-08-15

Afternoon Reflections

The sunflower tree facing my bedroom window scatters the afternoon�s light, which kisses the tall treetops and dried palm-tree leaves. Gray streets are bare, and there is absolute silence outside, save for the songs of bird filling up these ears that yearn for something sweet. Gusts of the warm, summer breeze floats by and shakes the leaves on the trees, making them tremble like the pieces on a wind chime. I make the attempt to focus on Oscar Wilde, but the scene standing right before my eyes is too ideal to be ignored.

the faint whispers of the summer breeze makes things far more dramatic, as if I were living in a perpetual love-story. Sitting back, I think that this will inevitably go down as one of the many scenes of my youth that I will one day recount.

Last night, I read Freder�co Lorca�s poem of roses, whose words tasted like sweet perfume as they trailed out of my lips. It is a wonderful poem to read aloud, and I feel that he embodies the image I would one day like to live up to. How perfect his descriptions are, and he mentions, �...silent dusk of autumn� or �...covered by a fall night�, and I know that I am translating, and perhaps I shouldn�t be doing this great poet such a disrespect, but I cannot help myself.

...Un crep�sculo gr�s de agon�a...

With hand over heart, I let out a pearl-colored sigh, and I know that I am theatrical, but melodrama is the only joy in my young life. Slowly, I find that I am falling in love with this man�s poetry, and it kisses my heart like the warmth of a vertical ray of the sun. He says that roses are the only flowers that have come closest to imitating our own hearts, and that they are the representation of love itself.

At night, I fall asleep repeating Thoreau�s quote:

�Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink, I see its sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper, fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one.�

Numerous months have passed since first I laid eyes upon this particular quote, which has quickly become my favorite. Upon writing this, Thoreau had already lived a life filled with experience, which I have yet to acquire; I have yet to grasp this quote�s full meaning. I feel that within those few lines, there hides some great truth about life that I have yet to grasp.

Why time, Henry? Why not say �life�? Life is but a stream..., and indeed, I have portrayed life as a stream, or a river, or a creek. Either we can become the dried leaves that float about the undulating ripples and are carried by those willful currents, or we can be those thirsty and weary sojourners, who constantly stop to drink from it, and as Thoreau said, �I would drink deeper...�.

And how much have I drunk from the creek that is life, or time? Do the days fade away like a flickering flame without my taking notice? I have looked upon many lingering clouds and shadowy trees on plenty of occasions, and very few times do I truly notice the beauty that is life. Dried leaves float about and succumb to those cold waters that can either be gentle or harsh. Sojourners first admire the glittering creek, then proceed to drink from it and cool themselves off by splashing the diamond drops on their necks and faces. We are both leaves and sojourners, depending on how the river bends, on what muddied shores it washes upon, or on which rocks it creeps over. We go from yielding to certain circumstances, to heartily drinking everything that is offered. I have no shame in admitting this to myself--that this creek need not constantly float in perfect formation, and I come to realize that imperfection is the beauty of life!

Ah, but how useless it is to sit on this summer afternoon and attempt to finish the puzzle that is life! Puzzles shouldn�t be rushed at, they take time and effort; they are the fruits of our labor. Oftentimes, we become so fixated on certain pieces, and wholeheartedly believe that they belong in a certain place. After tugging and struggling, ultimately, we realize that we must place them in their correct spot. However, we fail to understand that these pieces--in the end--complete our puzzle like the others, with the only difference that we become much more fixated on these than the rest. Our puzzle cannot be complete with our gawking at one particular piece. Slowly, we work at it, and perhaps this is what I must learn.

When the weather permits, my father and I go sailing. And I love the salty sea-breeze at dusk that dishevels my hair as I sit and lazily read Joyce Carol Oates, not caring about fishing. The sound of waves is hypnotizing, and as evening falls, they gain force upon splashing against the sides of the boat--swaying it back and forth in a rocking motion, which puts me to sleep.

I have to capture everything, I have to grip tenaciously onto the sun before it sets.

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aeka at 7:36 p.m.