Monday, October 08, 2007 Arinday: Nostalgia By G.H. Arinday, Jr. Sunfare
WHERE HAVE all Gods harmless and beautiful playthings gone?
How about the countryside lullaby and the weeping guitars making a universal communion amidst the peaceful beauty of the verdant hills and fields enraptured by the moonbeams?
The simple heart unknowing of his poetic capabilities like wandering soul delights in the crickets symphony announcing the falling curtain of twilight while the fingers of the sun touch no more the petals of wild little flowers among the hillsides.
Among the tree shrubs the simple farm folks derived exhilaration in the purest sense as they witness the swarm of fireflies crowing the plants near the humble nipa huts where life was so chaste.
Late in the evening hours one could hear the hooting of the owl calling for the mate to explore the tree tops where they would worship the breeze and pray for the countryside the mecca of peace and beauty.
All of these requisites of quiet living are gone now. Forever? Oh, no.
The concerto of the crickets is deadened. The fireworks of the fireflies no longer illuminate and neither the owls dare to make their nocturnal love scene known. And even the sigh of the wind no longer echoes the weeping guitars celebrating the hymn of the countrysides tranquil life.
It seems as though the simple pleasure is only whispered during the hours of Angelus while the simple farm folk strongly invokes the protection of his Guardian Angel.
Do we fully understand the wretchedness of our lives despite our adherence to the melodious symphony of simple living but supplanted by fear and anguish?
How and why did Man descend into the abyss of his thoughts and invented or recreated Himself
into the infernal world and justify his beastly acts?
Even the innate opium of love and peaceful existence are vanished into the spheres of life unknown.
In the stillness of the night, the countryside folks are ever fearful that a group of men and women would rap at their doors and ask for the meager remnants of the victuals or else a nightmare would perturb the sepulchral silence of the evening hours.
Many times the dread would take place and instead of the humming of the breeze or the joyous hooting of the night birds staccato of gun reports would precede the wailing from the neighborhood.
The wind of fear would engulf the place and even the fowls roosting on the branches of the nearby fruit tress would dare not make any noise.
A day after the soil upon which the simple farmhand had nurtured with his sweats to survive is crimson red with his blood gradually washed away by the tears of the orphans. A hurriedly built cross made of fragile stick is planted with the candlelight flickered nearby as if to drive away the Evil.
Somewhere the scullions are rejoicing because of another score hit on the unbeliever of their faith or ideology. The inane pride of the killer becomes his own verdict in the process as someone whom he has entirely forgotten would take the cudgels from the Innocent One. It is the inescapable route of one who takes life of another as vengeance has its own kin and kith.
Preach and teach without conceit or seduce one not with threats and probably the two minds would arrive at a midpoint of understanding.
But lets go back to the yearnings of having back the lovely little things that God created to compliment our simple wishes and dreams.
We are starved of those little creatures and the creative solitude they have given us. We can recreate them in out thoughts and jot the nostalgia which has embraced us during solitary moments. But there is no substitute for reality and the wisdom these ideas on how tranquility could come from them albeit apparently insignificant.
The metaphysics of created small symbols of universal ecstasy can never be understood unless all of them are vanished from the senses of Man.
Let us have the symphony of the crickets, the fluorescence of the fireflies, and the hooting of the night birds and life shall be whole again.
