A year of fear

On a warm summer day, he stands under the gentle sunray. In the towering skylines and the low-lying gardens he sees, in the classroom’s scurries and the house’s echoing walls he hears. How some days we all fear what lies in the midst: in the pointing fingers, in the voices raised above unknowing ears and in our shadows engulfing the earth as the day passes by. The world has been a peculiar place; this we all stand witness to. Yet how exactly, and to whom? One February day, he knew for once.

                                                                                                                                      

On a warm summer day, man stands ardent. Meanwhile, the land beyond the horizon lies in wait. Watching, some might say, or merely casting forgetful glances. In the distant centuries we ran through their darkening woods, saw their night looming over our heads, touched the very edge of their reality, and what we came across we made sure to stay the past. So we raised walls of stone, parted the running rivers. We laid down bricks and earthwork and casted shrouds of metals and plastics, so that the earth and the sky and the waters would stand aside for once. We built winding stretches of road and sprawling metropolises so that we could finally say to ourselves: yes, we live in safety now, from whatever lied when the world was an unlit plain.

On a warm summer day, however, we still do hear them from time to time.

The lean moving shadow in the distant trees, the scarcely audible cracks as it glides through, hidden in its towering height and endless reach. This we fear as we do our own as we walk in the midst of strangers.

The sound of things dropping through the calm face of water. We see the ripples, the splash, sometimes what falls away into the unknown depths. We fear that they may forever stay, so much that we may ourselves drown. In the obsessions that arise, at times; below the reflection, at others.

The sounds of the night seeping through the bedroom walls, maybe from the wilderness outside, maybe no more than fear moving across the floor. We feel it still, its feral claws reaching out as we lay dreaming.

The minute figure alone by the street’s dim corners, which some see on a cold day. We walk by deep in thought, neither casting too long a sideways glance nor offering any bit of warmth. We fear its strange whispers, whether of hate or sincere joy.

Some hear them better, the mounting noises drifting by with scarcely a blink drawn. Indeed, it all takes us away at times; it took hold upon him for sure. The world has been strange to some and more so to others, and once in a while, the safety of the house falls victim to the noise. It was his land, his blood, his very being that laid in man’s howling midst. This was more than a man would stand – more than we would stand, in fact. In the end, he ran. Away from the roars within the walls, and beyond the day’s gentle warmth. Hear the unknown sounds, see the sights strange and new. Listen! We hear still in our ears.

The distant howl under a moonlit sky, company to wandering souls, close by in its depth. Does it know of us? Of all we do in the absence of watchful eyes? Fear is wild and runs the deepest in manmade cracks.

The echo of our straying footsteps as we walk through deserted streets. The windows on the walls growing ever darker and the open sky watching the alleys below, these too bring forth fear. That we are lost in a distant lands, as we lose ourselves within the mind at times.

The hanging presence over the graves, its form little less than tangible, its sounds feeble through the unknown air. Fear lingers there, drawing in wandering minds with thoughts of what lies beyond.

The strangers deep in thought, in the halls of books and forgotten memories. We see them marching forth in emptiness, unwavering, uncaring. Do they see? Do we? For sometimes we forget and live ignorant, a fear of the knowledge we fail to grasp.

On a gloomy day without sun, he lies dreaming reality. Of all lovely stories and the very best ones. Of the noises wailing over his head and the sounds reaching out from the dark. Some stand alone on a gloomy day, where the noises hold no power. Why not bring forth stranger sounds, then? Introduce a little bit of joy through the dark cracks we all pass by. One February day he thought. Thoughts turned into ideas, which turned into schemes, which turned into actions. Strangers came and heard, then they built and spread the words. Words of all kinds of things, growing stranger by the passing days.

The crack of wooden joints, bound by lengths upon lengths of old thread. Seizing, maybe strangling, the carved mass we toy with at times. As we smile in calm and laugh with joy, fear comes by and asks: how would we feel in its place?

The silhouettes under the pale white of the lamp. We see the faint depths of darkness, see them racing in the corners of our eyes, quiet in their knowledge of what we fear.  

The distant beating wings of the flock, carried by the wind from the soaring heights – where man’s fear knows no bounds but the infinite reaches of the sky.

The deep hum of the turning wheels deep in running machineries. It’s the sound of change for the world, for all people, and those who cannot help but fear it.

Today it still is growing. Never relenting, never backing down. We hear the sounds climbing still, hear them from the dark recesses. We learn to know, and love, and never again fear.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Happy birthday Owen.

Happy anniversary, everyone.

E.