Sow a seed and let it grow. All you need is an idea. Your idea.
Stride the blues on the wings of your idea. Take to the air, take flight, soar and forget. Let there be no memory. Evaporate from the confines of your serpentine schema. Unwind the heartstrings. Unentwine.
You are good to go—in that split second between inspiration and conformance—when clarity springs on you like a wild thing. Suddenly, the unbearable lightness in you echoes nothing. Devoid of the reassuring commentary of peers and acquaintances, you feel like a vacuous cipher.
You have flamed and soared while you could. And that is all. There is nothing more to it. You exist in the collective consciousness of people you know. You are their idea of you. You cannot outgrow the conception of you. Your life and ideas are but a flicker in the shadows gliding across this vagueness. And your audacity of surmounting it lands you in this formless limbo. You are undone. And there is no undoing the deed once it is done.
Or is that another of your insidious ideas?
Isn’t the idea of loss more fearsome than loss itself? So perhaps is the idea of hope—and the idea of love—more divine than divinity itself.
What happens to the bird that drops dead, frozen, in mid-flight? When you feel the warmth seeping out of that quivering feathery mass, you think of its hoarse cries, its swift, choking breaths, its last surge forward before the final submission. You look around perplexed; how strange it seems that there is nothing more to it than the dampness and cold. And then you are faced with the terrible truth—your idea of pain—this inexorable rite of passage that you make so much of.
Pain clasps at your throat at this ignominy. It rips your being. You flick through the pages of life—but memory fails you as you finger the dampness of abandoned dreams. In every crevice of your dank history, you find them looking at you, still as a dead bird.
Gather yourself. There is time yet. You are an intelligence in the effulgent flux of time. You are your idea. For all the ties and tears that shaped you, you know now that all that matters is your idea. In the hoary depths of your being, you know where it bleeds darkness. Darkness seeps through your soul. But there is time yet for you to cut the strings and surge. Clarity is cruel—’Light up or fade’, it says. And in that moment, you are stripped naked.
You are one with the elements. In the futility of human ties lies your key to survival. Arm yourself with the invulnerable slant of light. Plant an idea. A speck of dust survives through light-years of cosmic upheavals. And when we see it, we call it a star.
Your star will germinate in deep and meandering ruins of states. The seed you sow today will surge through many-branched thoughts and bring about the final efflorescence. Be your idea.