The fondest dream #1
If there is a song that I want to listen to while jumping off a cliff, then its Canon in D major. Its builds images of a fairy who comes and holds your hands and dances with you while from above the sky, velvet white drapes hang down and rose petals rain with a smell of lavender in the air and the wind blows carrying the sweet smell of a nearby stream and the sounds of birds singing and your feet move on the dew and you smile, eye in eye, feeling secure in the embrace of a fragile, surreal love. Her golden locks caress your face while you go round and round and the touch of her hand caresses your heart. As you hold her hand, you feel rocks cutting through your palm and you wonder, you cry. Blood flows out of the eyes, like the chirp of the bird - not a single beat is missed. Your fair face now boasts of a rivulet of the richest color. Richer than gold, more beautiful than diamonds adorning the tiara that the Father wears sitting on his golden throne in heaven. Its the image of the greatest beauty, coming out of the greatest pain, for a child's dream has been broken. And he weeps, innocence makes him sit on the grass which reminds him of the promise and hurts him like a bed of thorns and the tears flow silently. Maybe the Father rejoices in the contrast that presents itself. A fair face and a red stream which flows and the child still smiles, showing his bleeding palms to the sky, hoping that the Father sitting on the throne is content.
In one smooth stroke of a sword the head is severed. A head which stood on shoulders now slumping. Which dreamt of brooks and shade of trees and a breeze which brought a whiff of gramyre in its wake. And as he stood with open arms to embrace it, to lose himself in that one moment, a blade was thrust and instead of a kiss, he tasted his blood and found it bitter and laughed not at the irony as there was none that he could fathom, just at the state of being. Being in a dream, dreamt by a most cruel Cupid who sounded the chord that made him yearn for years and long with the labour of his tears and blood for one sensation. Alas, he realised that 'tis not meant to be. Ironic, he knew it all along.
Curse the Cupid? Nay. Why curse dreams if they seem not meant to be? Jump off the mountain and hum Canon in your mind. Leap with the wind blowing on your face as the crescendo of notes hits you and let your life flash in front of your eyes. Let it begin again. The beginning will remind you of your childhood, where dreams lay like fresh dew on a garden with bright red flowers and where you danced to rain for it was the only music that you could feel, both on your skin and in your heart. Let the rest of it come with vigour and the strength of youth and give the illusion of strength for diffidence is all that you have known, all through life. And close your eyes and your sensation to everything. Embrace your grave, and there wont be a you anymore. Just the Cupid - maybe its his turn to shed tears.