|
|
|
|
|
Former Glory The sun treads the path among cedar and enormous oak, pressed against the rolling waves of a Forest In Bloom, clinging to the threshold like a baby would its mother - crying, crying - but with a certain dignity, a ragged superiority punctuated with peacock-tufts of grass and The Water. Leading the way for the north wind to march across this forest battlefield, advances of salt and pepper, green and blue, yellow and red, all so different but yet flowing together, changing each other and existing as chaotic, as peaceful, as calm or as wild as the observers heart. The forest roof swaying and darting…the wind combing its branches to-fro, every motion promising another beginning; a new generation in the making. Another beginning. He confided in his brush like a diary. Telling all - hiding nothing - confessing the secrets of a dastardly today and glancing down at a scrap of paper. A book that he'd tried to write but found himself inferior too. A story, too great for words. A legend that never died. Dear Diary, I've shown a wicked dastardly streak today… Dear Diary, why do I keep it all in and never tell them my story? Would anyone read? Dear Diary, How come you never write back…? The forest at least, always writing back, didn't reject him as the book had. The forest knew no prejudice. Its whole loving each extension no matter complexion or dimension, transcending rank. Knowing no outcast, trusting each other to hold the watch, never sleep. Savouring each moment, centuries of experience amidst beauty. Unshakeable. Unshakeable from doubt to doubt. Untouchable as well, save for the loving caress of the sky, nurturing its people like children. And should man in all its numbers be allowed to roam free here, the beauty would be snatched away, hidden from the Climbing Towers and the Growling Engines. Even now, one observer feels that the forest is hiding secrets from him, riddles that can never be known lest they be solved. Mysteries, secrets. Tracy beckoned the wind to share everything with him. It silently passed and that was the end of the matter. Yet the calm here tempted him to pour out his inner thoughts. He trusted the forest, though the forest hardly trusted him. He would be rewarded for mimicking the lively stillness every time the corner of his eye traced a fleeting shadow, a Caterpie or a Pikachu or a Stantler perhaps, coming closer but never too close, always enough to hold him there, waiting for more. Seeing where Ash would have gone, but staying, knowing the trainer's path too well. The rain came now, the forest's tears. Why would it cry, what did it have to cry about, would he ever know? The rain probed the path as quickly as it came, running its length in a golden streaming muddy avatar. Still it came, harder than before, merciless and foreboding. An invasion in this place of calm. And though it beat hard on the wings of the trees, the storm never could stay angry for long. In the end, the forest won it over, and they danced together in their final moments, the water gliding the length of the tired leaves, more beautiful than ever. And the observer knew that something had been revealed to him then, but didn't know what as he slid the brush along the canvas. The forest was a shrewd storyteller. It picked its moment precisely, then fell silent, as silent as a picture pointing to the sky. For its sovereign had returned, the sun sowed jewels along the glittering scene, an aurora's mystery. Finally revealed. United. The sun, the rain, the winding trail, the shining trees, the wandering animals cautiously sipping the rain, the wondering observer, the wandering sun again, finally returned. The picture now complete as it was exquisite. As rich and sweet as the eye could drink in, "so glorious". How privileged the observer felt, just to be here, just to stay here carefully and hastily imitating the river of light in his picture, unsure how long the forest would permit this unveiling to last, unsure how he should capture a cheering tribe of heather. The twists and turns in the branches (enchanting), the wise oak trunk (reborn a hundred times), the path to a world so unlike the one he left behind (satisfying), just a little longer and this picture would be complete, he thought, obsessing over every faint characteristic and inter-dependant stroke and trying, trying not to glance at The Book-Diary. As a painter to his subject, he presented the finished article, and the light shone stronger as if approving the likeness. And then the light faded, and he looked at the picture again. There were the trees, there was the sun, there was the path, but something was missing. The Spirit. He could delight in his picture, but it was only a form of glory. He was only an artist, engineering, seeing but never fully capturing the spirit of the forest. Maybe even here in the solitude he wasn't alone, he thought, not that he believed in a God, but perhaps somewhere, there was another artist much like him, engineering, seeing… What a picture! A story too great for words! Plop. …and perhaps if he travelled the world again, with or without Ash but with this experience he'd find that for all its radiant dressings and turbulent clefts, all this was just a form of glory, just not quite the full picture. Plop. He left, leaving the painting behind - bitter that the sunlight should find fault in the arc of a brush and simply dismantle it with pounding, pounding rain…Plopplopplopplop… FIN
|
