THE AISLES OF PARADISE

It is indeed my great pleasure to see you once again, my dear, perceptive reader. In the three weeks or so that I have been away from you, trust me when I say that I have thought a lot about you. Funny thing, memory, isn’t it? Perhaps I delude myself in believing that you are still out there, that you are still listening to what I have to say; whereas in reality, you could be a million miles away, on an endless beach of white sand somewhere in the tropics. Wait…. Did I say ‘reality’?? Scratch that. What indeed is reality? I say you are out there, eagerly hanging on to my every word, and so, you are.

This little flight of fancy I indulge in is all very well and fine, for it doesn’t have any ramifications. And yet, in some kind of cosmic tragedy, we, the only mammals to have the ability to imagine in a sentient manner, are the only ones so fettered by our trappings that we dare not. Our lives are filled with the harsh realities of the ‘real’ world, and we are left disillusioned, indeed if not disgusted. But then where can this little bird in our head, so eagerly beating its wings against its cage, take flight. Why, inside our head, of course. We have a whole little world in there, don’t we? The world of our pasts, the world that lead up to the now, that will lead on to the morrow? Isn’t it just lying there, our experiences, just waiting for us to unleash our complete repertoire of fancy on it?

Your memories are yours and yours alone. They aren’t controlled by the vagaries of what we, in our naïveté, call civilization. They are yours to do as you please. My dear reader, perceptive as you are, you may realize that I am partly rehashing over an earlier piece of mine, but bear with me nonetheless. For memory is indeed a strange thing. You realize that there is no such thing as an ‘accurate’ memory? There is only a platform, a viewing station, so to speak, from which only the keenest of observers can see, floating in the mists, other platforms, other viewing stations. But the coup de grace is yet to come. One must realize that there is no need for an accurate memory. Our perceptions of right and wrong, our judgment of true and false will suffice to show us the path.

But memory can indeed deceive, as many through the ages have pointed out. But it is indeed a sweet deception, one I welcome, not shun. Life is in trauma, not specifically, but very generally. Look around. It is akin to the seething froth of water on rock so feared by mariners. And yet, we must, as must they, endure it. And the lifeline we cling to, the sight of land, to stretch the metaphor a little further, is memory, and the dream of things to be. For the past and the future are not distinct, they are not separated by the now. On the memories of your yesterday are overlaid the dreams of your tomorrow, and the paths that you walk as you stroll through this wonderland are akin to the paths of Eden indeed.

Condemn one not for clinging to ones illusions, for it is a lifejacket to a drowning man, water to a parched throat, a lone sunbeam through the clouds of a thunderstorm. Instead, look to join him on the paths he wanders, and then make your own way. Look around, and try not to separate the ‘have beens’ from the ‘should have beens’ and the ‘should bes’. Instead, marvel at the kaleidoscope that arises at the fusion of the three, and enjoy. Make peace with the past, and look forward with hope to the future. Life is hard, and such stolen moments, trysts with ones self, are what make it worth the while.

With that, I shall take my leave of you for now, my dear reader, if indeed you are there at all. But I shall leave you with a very interesting thought…. Memory is a strange thing. It disappoints at first, but it is a way of holding on to the things you are, the things you love, the things you wish to never lose, and the things you wish time ignored. In a world that changes too fast, sometimes all one can do is hold on to memory, and wish one another a happy life…… and good luck.

A LETTER OF MANY TRUTHS

My dear, perceptive reader, perhaps I have been too liberal with the words musings or thoughts. Perhaps what goes through my head are not thoughts after all, perhaps they are merely thoughtlets, stray clouds that pass across the blue sky of consciousness. Perhaps you think me pretentious and stuck up. On the other hand, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you even like me a little. Perhaps by virtue of my letters to you, for that is what this address holds, my letters to you, you have formed a picture of me. Perhaps the picture you formed is accurate, perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I must thank you, my dear reader; for you have read the outpourings of my soul, and stuck by me no matter what kind of drivel I subject you too.

You see, that is the beauty of the letter, that sheet of paper on which there is a real script, a real hand, in real ink. It leaves a lot to the imagination of the reader, to construct the writer out of naught but that sheet of paper. While dealing with a letter, you must treat all on that sheet as fiction, and all in your head as reality. What was the writer thinking when he wrote that letter? Was he thinking about you, its grateful recipient? Was his mind wandering across plains uncharted? Look at the strong hand, the words fluid. Surely the writer was in good health. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t want his reader to worry about him.

A letter is that medium which allows dreams to come closer to reality, for what is reality? It certainly isn’t one fixed, immovable, stolid object. Indeed, it is fluid, like the clay of a kindergartener, molded to suit ones tastes. Your reality is shaped by the tint of your eyes, by your hopes, your dreams, and your memories. And if a letter causes your memories to change, to come closer to your dreams, then that is the way life should be. What happens when you are confronted by the fact that your dreams are…just that..dreams?? We live after all in a sea of perennial hope, and life is richer for a shattered dream than no dream at all.

One may say that in today’s digital world, with instant messaging at ones fingertips, we have no need for the institution of the letter. We may know all about the one with whom we converse in a matter of minutes. To such, I say, perhaps you miss the point. This is not about knowledge, but about that which sustains us all, our imagination. IM is too clean, too sterile; it doesn’t inspire one’s imagination the way a letter does. Have you never dreamt when you were a little kid?? Never dreamt of your life that shall be, of the people you shall meet?? Well, here is your chance to merge that dream with the people you did meet. A little indulgence in fantasy never hurt anyone.

But this is not an exhortation to dream big. It is one to dream small. Dream about what should have been, not what is. Dream about the next person you want to meet. Dream about how an old friend you haven’t seen in ages would be like now. Dream about what you would say when you found the person you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. Dream about that person from your past, whom you wish you hadn’t hurt, or about that girl to whom you wish you’d said more. Dream about your fiftieth birthday, and who you want to spend it with. Dream about that day when you are eighty, when a chess game is all you crave for, a chess game with a friend, a friend who once, wrote you a letter.

Dream about me. My letters to you contain a wealth of information about me. My dear reader, you and me, we have a past. Do not forget it. If I ever hurt you, my dear reader, forgive, but do not forget, and be assured I won’t either. If I ever delighted you, treasure that memory for ever. Let your memories of me get mixed up with the way you wanted me to be. Bring this image of me into your present. Take it with you into your future. This is my legacy to you.

So, my dear reader, this, and all that came before, and all that shall come are my letters to you. It is a letter of truth, certainly. But that truth is for you to see as you wish. Read them, and form your construct of me. Make me a prince, or make me a pauper. Make me a poet, or an ignoramus. Mold your memory of me to any form you wish, for that part of me which I’m surrendering to you by means of this letter, that part of me in your head, is for you to do as you please. And send me your letters, so that I may do the same. Rejoice in the fantasies of the mind. But tarry awhile, and ponder this, dream free, for your dream is your own, and none else can shape it. It is yours and yours alone. Until next time, my dear reader, fare thee well!!!