Perhaps a sullen memento, perhaps a first sight of love, perhaps a glisten of succor that simmers deep insight one’s own introspection of self. Like a mirage, the memoirs of old glimmer and shimmer amidst the light of contemporary vestibule of thought; tinkering and manifesting themselves, grasping and diluting even the most stable of feelings and sobriety.
As we ponder and yonder the clock, as it tickles, by seconds and by minutes, to the smiley faces of it of the 10:10 ante-meridian and post-meridian, suddenly we feel lost in this blankness of space and the farness of history with the present of reality embellished with the promising (or dreadful) future untold, the memoirs of old lingers, like a scarecrow hushing away mynahs in the paddy field. When mynahs of the present begin to seize the paddy of perceptions and the stalks of them begin to ramify the succulent seeds that would be the rice we reap, the scarecrow looms there, fretting with an eerie semblance of a wretch; as if the soil has been fumigated with torrents of toxicants – the scarecrow nor the mynahs knew the scarecrow is but an effigy; a false perception of terror, an indubitable hoax. Still, the mynahs are scared of the scarecrow, alas, to the scarecrow’s ignorance.
Relentlessly, the shadow of the past attempt to behoove the light of the future, often with ambivalent avail –neither the prevalence of porosity presuppose the preamble of our penurious precept, rather a rustic ruckus of rambunctious rulings of rosy receptors read.
Still, memoirs of old are not all sour. Like orange, they become sweet when they ripe, when sonority of evenness prevail, when intellect guides the heart, when the equanimity engulfs the enraged, then will only memoirs of old be reflected.