“And let there be light!” he said. Thus I believe the universe was heralded; in the glow of divine flash bulb. Tiny embers must have rolled out of the heavenly bonfire, and strange devices they would seem, bellowing off steam for their very existence; oddly reminiscent of certain noxious humans which were to come several ages thence. Tiny as they were, these devices conceived even tinier contraptions. Innocuous and gullible, a little Earth must have wiggled in the radiance of its mother. Since then life surged; and has never ceased to stop.
Life goes along its path, never meaning to stop. Ever so nimble, yet so staunch. It commands its minions in an endless march, moving meticulously with the beat of time. Hitherto, when a new life is born, it chases after the splendor of a butterfly. Alluring and irresistible, the wings of creativity threaten to stray this diminutive mouse from the piper’s entourage. Or does it? Cold and harsh hands tug him along the predestined path, impassive eyes imposing on him the debt of a life unknowingly obtained. Oblivious, life moves on in its never ending trudge. The mouse ascends the ladder of time, furtively clinging to a few wisps of hope, ever so near yet so far, far away.
An intricate web of fragments, each shaped by the dreams of our youth intertwine effortlessly, and eventually our bodies are but equipment for the piper’s parade. Or are we? “Look, I am a flute!” exclaims the grown mouse. “It’s a sword,” declares the others. Even as the metamorphosis continues along with the dreams of the enigmatic butterfly, cruel hands force down upon the flute in compliance with divine order given by some God. Or is it? Coercing the hilt down, filling the outlets. Heedless to the shrieks of the flute, numerous hands rain down on it to sharpen its edge. “We shall make it one of us!” the other swords cry “Or else he will never survive!” Or will he? Helpless, the flute grasps at butterfly of its desires but it is still too far away, he tries to reach out; his hands have been shortened. Overwhelmed, the flute succumbs (Or does he?) to the swarm of swords, each disfigured, each half a sword, a testimony each one to an unaccomplished dream; as they shroud him in their likeness.
Life goes along its path, never meaning to stop. Ever so nimble, yet so staunch. It commands its minions in an endless march, moving meticulously with the beat of time. Hitherto, when a new life is born, it chases after the splendor of a butterfly. Alluring and irresistible, the wings of creativity threaten to stray this diminutive mouse from the piper’s entourage. Or does it? Cold and harsh hands tug him along the predestined path, impassive eyes imposing on him the debt of a life unknowingly obtained. Oblivious, life moves on in its never ending trudge. The mouse ascends the ladder of time, furtively clinging to a few wisps of hope, ever so near yet so far, far away.
An intricate web of fragments, each shaped by the dreams of our youth intertwine effortlessly, and eventually our bodies are but equipment for the piper’s parade. Or are we? “Look, I am a flute!” exclaims the grown mouse. “It’s a sword,” declares the others. Even as the metamorphosis continues along with the dreams of the enigmatic butterfly, cruel hands force down upon the flute in compliance with divine order given by some God. Or is it? Coercing the hilt down, filling the outlets. Heedless to the shrieks of the flute, numerous hands rain down on it to sharpen its edge. “We shall make it one of us!” the other swords cry “Or else he will never survive!” Or will he? Helpless, the flute grasps at butterfly of its desires but it is still too far away, he tries to reach out; his hands have been shortened. Overwhelmed, the flute succumbs (Or does he?) to the swarm of swords, each disfigured, each half a sword, a testimony each one to an unaccomplished dream; as they shroud him in their likeness.
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