I’m lost. At first, the maple’s resplendent spread baits the eye – red, orange, yellow, green. Then I’m hooked by the subtle nakedness in every leaf – a secret on the verge of being spilled. It’s hard to contemplate one in isolation. My senses overwhelm. I’m at once everywhere, yet nowhere – stranded at the edge of dreams. Wild ideas find new wings. They are eager to fly, but are still tethered to reason – weather-beaten, season by season.
I’m contemplating. As thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, my unsettled thoughts rumble, then quickly fizzle into a chilly sprinkle. A sudden wind sweeps them away and leaves them fluttering on a butterfly’s wings – aimless, yet cheerful. I am content here, drifting between real and unreal, worries chipping away in the October breeze. But the hourglass trickles persistently, until it suddenly topples on its side – thoughts tumbling helplessly into a dream, nowhere to hide.
Space has disappeared – this freedom now is unbounded. I find myself lying on a forest bed, listening to the beat of the wind that spurs on mottled leaves. They hurriedly whisper their little secrets, but I still cannot decipher them. Hovering above me, the colours of a butterfly are wildly ephemeral; I soar with it as it floats upward, where the sky stands with open arms. But it is unblemished. There is no shield there to hide wounds or mortal crimes – all lay bare, covered in grime.
Thoughts have disappeared – this experience now is unfiltered. I’m dazzled to the point of shame, as my character unravels more, the more I look, until it stands naked in the clear, blue sky. It is an odd sort of feeling – haunting and endearing at the same time, strange and familiar at the same time. Is this who I am, or who I could become? Am I the earth that births the tree, or am I the sky embracing the earth? Is it I who sings the sparrow’s songs, or whisper secrets all day long?
Time has disappeared – this lifetime now is an instant. I’m tossing and turning memories of past and future, but there appears to be no sequence. The maple’s fiery tones morph into a brilliant green, then morph again into mottled leaves. There is no beginning here, nor end. The wind speaks with muted words, and the veil of secrecy is forbidden. But this euphoria is more real than reality it seems – a sweet escape, these maple dreams.
Arjumand Ateeq 