Monday, July 23, 2007
Syzygy
It was black. It was unlike any other that I've seen in my many lifetimes. It seemed out of place in this sunlit meadow, with all of nature's colors on display. It must have been one of the last remnants of the past winter, a thing thawed out of bitter ice and dark nights. Barbs on it's body must have been shaped by the cold, yet they are still sharp and nothing is going to cross them without it's tiny teeth sinking into it.
It was going to be just another ordinary day in early Spring, when the sun is still hesitant to pierce the yet hibernating earth and the cobwebs of the past winter night still clings to the limbs of all, living or otherwise. Down the ageless, weather-beaten path, a boy was on his way to meet his friend who live on the next farm. Beachcombing has been their favorite pastime these days, having just dumped their toys and pens and coloring books for something else. His was an age where one begins to wonder what lay beyond the bamboo fences, beyond the wrought-iron gates, beyond the tree that marks the familiar haunts. An old path has led them to a beach just beyond a dune of concrete built to protect the townspeople who lived along the shore. During days such as these, when the early morning heat is still bearable for people of his age to wander about, the boy and his friend would explore the sandy patch to watch the small crabs wave their miniature, multi-colored claws at the tide. These small creatures beat with the tides, coming out during the time of ebb, waving their claws in time with the incoming waves and burrowing just when the tide comes in again.
The boy was immersing himself with these thoughts when he saw it. It was black as the night, so unlike the waving rainbow on the sandy beach where he was supposed to go. It did not give any hint of being disturbed touched yet he could feel the sting where where the icy teeth made its mark. A crimson blotch was beginning to bloom on his white socks as the boy continues to stare at the thing that had just wounded him. On this sunlit morning during the early Spring, the boy came face to face with a thing that was new, even alien to him. It was dark, almost devoid of color. A stark contrast to the sticky, blood that was dripping down his legs and soaking his socks. Yet that ink blotch in an artist's canvass was a sweet invitation of a blemish. It was silent, yet it was not melancholy that radiates from it. It was still, yet it throbs like a beating heart with its own rhythm. It did not give a promise of salvation for future sins, but in it was a small drop hope nonetheless.
I picked it up, pricking my fingers in the process. It's blackness seem to deepen when blood flowed over it, as if yearning for more. The ice in it petals seem to thaw at my touch, and my blood. It is my precious now. I began to walk home down the old weather-beaten road that was older than me. The sunlight seemed to bathe everything it touched with a smear of black and crimson that day, as the small crabs gave one last wave of rainbow before the tide finally came in to drown its hues away.
It was going to be just another ordinary day in early Spring, when the sun is still hesitant to pierce the yet hibernating earth and the cobwebs of the past winter night still clings to the limbs of all, living or otherwise. Down the ageless, weather-beaten path, a boy was on his way to meet his friend who live on the next farm. Beachcombing has been their favorite pastime these days, having just dumped their toys and pens and coloring books for something else. His was an age where one begins to wonder what lay beyond the bamboo fences, beyond the wrought-iron gates, beyond the tree that marks the familiar haunts. An old path has led them to a beach just beyond a dune of concrete built to protect the townspeople who lived along the shore. During days such as these, when the early morning heat is still bearable for people of his age to wander about, the boy and his friend would explore the sandy patch to watch the small crabs wave their miniature, multi-colored claws at the tide. These small creatures beat with the tides, coming out during the time of ebb, waving their claws in time with the incoming waves and burrowing just when the tide comes in again.
The boy was immersing himself with these thoughts when he saw it. It was black as the night, so unlike the waving rainbow on the sandy beach where he was supposed to go. It did not give any hint of being disturbed touched yet he could feel the sting where where the icy teeth made its mark. A crimson blotch was beginning to bloom on his white socks as the boy continues to stare at the thing that had just wounded him. On this sunlit morning during the early Spring, the boy came face to face with a thing that was new, even alien to him. It was dark, almost devoid of color. A stark contrast to the sticky, blood that was dripping down his legs and soaking his socks. Yet that ink blotch in an artist's canvass was a sweet invitation of a blemish. It was silent, yet it was not melancholy that radiates from it. It was still, yet it throbs like a beating heart with its own rhythm. It did not give a promise of salvation for future sins, but in it was a small drop hope nonetheless.
I picked it up, pricking my fingers in the process. It's blackness seem to deepen when blood flowed over it, as if yearning for more. The ice in it petals seem to thaw at my touch, and my blood. It is my precious now. I began to walk home down the old weather-beaten road that was older than me. The sunlight seemed to bathe everything it touched with a smear of black and crimson that day, as the small crabs gave one last wave of rainbow before the tide finally came in to drown its hues away.
