Of New Knowledge and Dead Blossoms.

It is not true.  It just is not.  Thinking that you know them. 

You grow up in a family, a society, a world, you see films and magazine articles, all confirming that this is a universal, not just a local, but a universal truth!  And being a son of your times, a junkie of the feelgood Bambi culture, which too was brought up on similar myths and night tales, you sometimes wonder if that rosy pathway we're supposed to follow is true, but because of our innocent age - we continue to trust the director, believe in the script, we stay on page: a script that assures us that all will come well in the end.  But it is just not true, still not.

You see them, during all of their young lives, from wobbly first steps to the firm tread they use when boarding that aeroplane whisking them away from you for an eternity, and you know, (you so know it you need to vomit from the knowingness of it) you just never really knew them, not really.

And the wonder sets in your jelly brain, that all this time that you had delusoinally known them, had them figured out so well, (because of your so-called life experience, you the great expert on mankind, especially the younger version, the one really, really close to you) and yet, all that expertise turns out to be worth less than seaweed or the white petals, browning and dead on the lawn.  Maybe less, at least seaweed still send out aromas of the Atlantic, and the dead petals died, giving birth to a red cherry.

Still not.

17 June 2011