Oh, think twice. It’s another day for you and me in paradise……
She’d learned to control her mood, fine-tuning the weather every now and then, so that it rained little and less. The crops stood sedate in the fields now, as she got down to take a walk, glistening indignant and golden against the first rays of autumn morning light, ever so lovely, and reassuring where they promised a harvest.
Sometimes, in the labyrinth, she thought she’d struck a balance. A delicate, and temporary balance fragile to almost any upset. But mortals are always such desperate creatures, ready to make peace with and adapt to new environments they get caught in, willingly or not—-anything they would to survive. It’s almost in their blood.
Now, looking down the vast ocean of sunny wheat bending their welcoming to her in the breeze, it gave her small comfort to know that, the first of her year around, she’d blessed her people with happiness, peace and a full stomach for the rising winds.
And a lust for life, keeps us alive……
She’d made peace with the land, she thought. She‘d made peace with her duties. And peace with her current situation. She felt she’d grown more like the God, making peace with everything, the elements– ‘Let it rain. Where it rains, it rains.’–, luck, misery and fate. ‘Because we cannot die.’ Indeed.
She’d asked the God how come they’d kept that water-flowing stillness, like something they’d been initially born with, something that had come up naturally and matter-of -factly. ‘Because we cannot die.’ The God had answered.
The Spirit made it plainer, ‘Because normally we do not die of starvation, nothing do we think of salvation. And no pain would physically hurt us, so we grow numb of violence. We do not die of power hunger, so the only possible outcome is to be bored to death. Thus, always tired of life and wistful of the past, we never lived.’
She wondered how he was faring then, and resolved to call on him. They sat on the hillside near the divide. The Spirit’s field of flaming scarlet poppies swaying mildly to his rhythm, as usual, his flute drowned out everything else that touched upon her senses. Everything became distant and incoherent, all but his mournful notes rolling into one long song, on and on, round and round, his pale fingers blurred shadows in deft movements. Her fingers reached past the divide,and touched her rose pedals. They blossomed and withered and melted away like butterfly wings.
‘My roses said your music is magic,’ she turned, smiling in awe-struck wonder.
‘Loneliness turns sorrow into gold, and gold into sorrow. I wouldn’t call that magic,’ he replied.
高二10班 Unknown
