A Detached Memory of A Father

I am standing with this vastness under my wounded feet. This I have been granted (by whom, I don't know).

I have to cross this uncertain(hazy?) landscape before darkness. To collect aid from the other side is my purpose. This journey I have to undertake twice a day for next six days.

I stand here, with haste in my mind, mesmerized by the endless plains of solitude. This I can not describe the way a painter'd have done. I don't have the power to collate borrowed words into an image, let alone a feeling.

But this loneliness, I must mention, has nothing to do with the person that is me. It has nothing to do with my dreams and desires and conscience : what secret I've suppressed : what I've repented for : what I can not control : what stories I'll be part of.

I can see my importance silhouetted in the fading light of the impending twilight. The sole survivor of an wasted generation. But there is nobody to share this uniqueness with. Obviously.

And also this is a part of a story : role of a cameo. It always is. I ask you : who is telling the story? who is hanging on to each and every word so keenly?

The father of a faraway time. Your son is dreaming another dream. Your words are the threads for him to weave with. Starting with these words of yours(?) : "However hard I try I can not get the lonesome valley and long hours of tireless barefoot journey out of my memory." he would write down somewhere : "Like a ghost, the image haunts my mind. It has become my default presence amidst clemency."

The heedless son would make your words speak of different tales, to fulfil his own agenda, to emphasize his insignificant arguments and to advertise his fleeting belief. He knows not the details of the evening : this evening I am leaning on. He knows not my wound in the left foot, and my pain. Nor my haste to skip this monotone plain of green hollow : to reach the skyline on the other side.

My childhood, locked inside that image of fragmented shadows and dark hues : nobody to guide, no one to wipe the sweat off the brows, nowhere to go that can be called home, nothing to wait for, no dream to lie down upon : who has written down that history or that fixation in the flow of events?

And even these are not my words. Not even these. Someone must have copied these symbols from humanist, communist, nihilist, socialist, capitalist, individualist, romantic, existential, paganist, populist, fascist, marxist, modernist, materialist, imperialist, libertarian, postmodernist, psychedelic, illusionist, nationalist books and journals. They have been put in my mouth.

This shadowy vastness : fixed wordless eternity, and the bloody wound are granted to me . These are only what are mine.