There is an invisible orb of stories and a wisp of reminiscent legends that wrap the Earth. A sphere made of the transparent phantoms of dust. It is a place where time had never lived, and where beauty – in its most affectionate and vilest form had sprouted.

The orb is the Earth’s memory that still dances with life and the vividness of dreams, even a million years after the characters and lands of those memories had returned to dust. But it’s them that the Earth caresses in her heart – those men, whose dust our plain lives walk on – who have forever written their stories on a universe that could never be touched by fleeting things such as time and laymen.

And that’s why, in the silent whisper of the night, when the Earth weeps in the wake of their poignant memories, I ask her of those people and their lives. I would sit by the crashing ocean, listening to her ceaselessly mourn those long-lost stories, that had been from a time when humans had talked to the ocean’s spirit. I would sit by, and listen to the tales being told in a language that couldn’t be distinguished by those who didn’t discern the bubbling life in the calmness of nature. And I would talk to the wind and stars and particles of sand – for they are ancient lives, who bear in their long memories, infinite stories of a time so surreal with human greatness.

Once, the maroon-hued late evening trees whisper to me the tales that the old forest had recounted to her when she was young. In gushing tones rushing forth her black ruby branches, she would narrate to me of how the great king of the yonder days had sacrificed his own body and flesh to feed the flames of light that dispelled darkness. Stories of men who fell to the Earth selflessly, to save their land from the evil that festered through its veins. Of women who, scorning, burned their lives to protect with their embers, a sacred truth. Of children yet innocent of anything but golden fantasies about a vast multi-hued world, leaving this Earth before their life began, so as to give life to men unknown. And the dark shrubberies would nod in the wind that moved with those golden souls that were lost in the wilderness of history.

And then, I seek out to the deep silence that echoes from within the dunes and dust of deserts. A great legend moves within its time-woven folds. There in the red infinite, I listen as the sun and the Earth tell each other the stories of love, about the beautiful princess who etched out her life on the shattered stone of miseries and held together her soul and morale in the heart of the storm. The scattered sand would bring back its song about the wise seers who spun out the elusive silver mysteries of Earth from their silent tongues. Of wanderers who conquered love and land to find life.

Each night, the passing vestiges of darkness soak the sky with serenades of life, love, beauty and the divinity of sorrow that had walked the Earth in the form of people ancient. And I grew up listening to those stories of the Earth, still heard in the language of those who listen. And day by day, I grew with the old, undying souls – with the moonbeams and bluebell breezes, the chimes of the brook and the deep musical silence from the Earth’s heart. And the epic of their lives inspired my breath.

So one day, when my breath ceases, I would leave behind a life that drenched the Earth once again in forgotten human conquests, and illumines in its depart, a legacy of love, change and humanity. And my soul would leave this mortal world, to return to the Earth’s arm, to forever live with my long lost heroes in the eternal sphere of memory.

Because, all else, who live for the mediocrity of the trifles of everyday life must perish after a hundred years, with their memories swallowed by the soil, and forgotten forevermore.


And in death, I wish to leave behind my life.


(Image courtesy: Pinterest)


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