Sometimes, life slowly passes by when we are in a haze. Slowly with ingenuity, time creeps on us, as the seconds change and silently become seasons in rotation. The once but brown, parched fields, slowly blossom into sheer magnificence. In the twinkle of an eye rainbows appear before us and yes life slowly changes in rotation. Sometimes we are like hamsters on the paddling wheel, continually exerting energy only to go back to where we started such it becomes we are unable to measure the distance we have travelled because without a measuring stick, we are stuck in a conundrum. Do we seek happiness, growth and movement or we choose to stay in the continual cycle of nonentity, only to come out of it with life’s bitterness carved upon our flesh, stripped of our youth and the joys that came with a fresh mind, running around like fools in the pursuit of selfish pleasures that live no legacy of our time serving our generation well.
Times change and even the seasons sometimes are out of sync, almost as if they are fighting each other to take the centre stage, cajoling each other to take the centre stage. Winter trying to upstage summer by being naughty, throwing her cold spells into glorious summers stage, autumn sometimes confusing herself into thinking that she is spring or spring and summer conniving if not simply getting confused as well visa a vis. Yet they still are seasons. Sometimes if you listen carefully to the silent wind you can hear the laughter of childishness from the seasons. It brings a smile and freshness of a never aging nature.
As you stroll over the sands, the sands speak with a million voices of what they have seen. Once you feel the sands and hold them in your hands, listen to the stories they tell. See, they have seen it all, the lovers behind a bush engaged in a tryst, thinking they are hidden, the blood that has been covered by the sands, and the dirt that has been washed by the rain into the belly of the sands. If you need a credible witness, speak to the sands, they will tell you nothing but the truth. They will tell tales of ages, they will run riots and they will entrance you with the many things they have seen. Even the sun sleeps but the sands will tell you things that happened in the dark. The sands can tell you the sweetness of a drop of the first snowflake, and they can tell you of the warmth of the hug from the first ray of sunshine, the delicate embrace of a goodbye from the last drop of rain, more precious than a tonne of gold and sapphires. A million voices speaking and telling stories in the silence of the winds, in tones so hushed and fragile we fail to decipher the laughter and the tears. We miss the great stories they whisper to us, just because as we tread upon the sands we take them for granted and see them not and so even the sands change too, they fade away into dust, hated by many they sleep without telling us their great tales and adventures, stories of great men and women that stood once on the pulpit of the sands with their great dreams, hopes and aspirations. Men and women who saw great things and took steps of great magnitude carrying the sands with them to try and fulfil containing all the sands of the earth. For out of the bellies of the sands, greatness was nurtured, beauty was birthed, ugliness was covered and dreams were engraved in a timeless capsule. See how many have fallen, dying for the great sands, yet we pay no attention to the stories of this great story teller.
Indeed, life can be and is something we all wish we can contain; a great science that even the brainiest and greatest of man cannot decipher the hidden mysteries and wonders. It remains that shadow that exudes beauty in the hands of the hopeful yet dread in the eyes of the hopeless and faithless. noreen@2011-08-29