Updated: Apr 1
I awake one early morning and notice a small congregation of horses, giraffes and zebras dangling above me. I attempt to reach them, but my limbs are too short. The bliss of unconsciousness fades and I am reminded of the condition I must endure. A sense of frustration rolls over me and my cries escape irreversibly. Suddenly, mother materializes in the room and comforts me with breast milk. Frustration and fear subside, and last night's dream about a pack of deranged herring gulls spewing citric acid, that too fades into the deep recesses of my memory. Mother rocks me gently in her hands, and I concentrate on the smooth features of her face. If only I could tell her that I am sorry, I wish she didn't have to deal with me, that of my infantile frustration I do not possess control. When the time comes, I will declare, l will say, salutations mother, I meant to cause you no inconvenience, I meant to cause no detriment to your physical or mental health, do accept my sincere apology. One day I will be able to tell her, but for now, alas, I am feeling helpless and impotent. Mother's milk has a tendency to bring to my mind existential thoughts like this. Oh milk, thou sharpen reason and fine-tune senses. In milk is love, in milk is life. In moments such as these I contemplate the beauty and the terrors of this fascinating world I’ve roamed for months. How volatile, how versatile is life, in the grandeur of universe, uncertainty of knowledge, in the excitement of discovery. The universe conspicuously brilliant in all creation, in splendour of the condition humans must endure, multidimensional reality of all existence, of world and nature, and of cosmos that’s above, incalculable powers of the mind. How wicked, yet divine, propelled by vice and virtue, in search of purpose from beyond, a mere futility, a person, a boundless tesseract of light, an ephemeral block of muck accountable to change, inclined to wither.