FOURTH EPOCH: THE ETERNAL LANGUAGE
In the earliest days, when writing was yet just a profession, I would often wonder what I would write about. Which subject must I garb in elegant draperies of words to adorn the world?
Most other writers, I had noticed, wrote of things the things that made the ‘today’. Of that class of ideas that enthrall, and held in its center, the entire world’s admiration for a span, before completely vanishing into the air. And many an artistic pen-bearer left ink trails of the path trodden by every sheep in the flock, wasting their passions over the little things that scented the day’s air, wanting to write of what the other wrote.
But even when people urged me to invest in the glamorous genre that bought readers of my time, something felt wrong about draining such sacred a wealth on something as inconsequential as to be fleeting.
And every other writer wanted to catch the tide, the hugely rising wave of interest that magnetically compels the artists and other men alike to become its part in touching the sky before its fall. But yet, tides were of a nature to pass, rise and fall. And in the end, it is the ocean that remains – the ancient depth that often conceals its timeless beauty beneath the ephemeral waves that dance bright today.
At that time, unfed by introspection, this concept was but a vague, ununderstood sense, that girdled my passion so as to let it flow only with the waters of the deep ocean. A lingering trace of a whisper from within my heart would throw its tempestuous tantrum, would I write anything but those words that carried heavy in their wombs, a depth of undying meaning, as of the ocean.
And why not? Any object that thought itself strong enough to fight back the erosion of time, so as to become, one long day hence, an ancient testimony to immortality, must learn to speak in the tongue of the undying ocean and not at all the mortal language of the ephemeral tides, that was heard so loud in the murmur of every mortal citizen.
And that was a language, made not merely of words, but of deep truths that were born with the birth of time, and rose along with the earliest dust of this Earth. A language of the heart and silence alike, that are felt in the ears of those few seeking seafarers who dare to sail beyond the mundane tides and into the vast, unfathomable ocean to seek an ancient miracle superior to passing mediocrity. And the language lives, asleep in lesser hearts, but alive, even yet, in every heart, and watches while other human languages are given birth and life, and a death alike. For, this language of hearts never died.
And by now, although I knew not about what to write, I knew the answer to a larger question – how to write. And-
A God, as I considered my divine art, it could only be given to this Earth in its native language…
To be continued…
(Image courtesy: Pinterest)
© 2018 Sahana Narendran