Friday, March 17, 2006
This will be one of the few posts that will include no pictures, but alot of words representing my inner thoughts. There are rare occassions that I reflect alot, and think alot. These are once-in-a-blue-moon-times when I am dead serious.
So I came up with a story while reflecting:
There was a raven a long time ago. When it was a chick, it dreamt of the day when it could fly. The raven was dead sick of its nest, which was built out of straw and twigs upon a feeble, dying tree. The raven thought its nest was not good enough; the nest it ate in, slept in, 'shat' in'. It was far from the perfect nest the raven had in mind. While growing up, the raven looked forward to flying, the time when it could fly far away from this dreadful home, and search for its true, perfect home.
Now, this raven thought of the perfect nest, that it will truly be content with. It dreamt of this perfect hole in a gigantic maple tree; where it can awaken to the sweet scent of maple sap every morning; where it can awaken to many other colourful birds chirping; where it can finally settle down and live the rest of its life in. So one day, the raven grew up and flew.
It flew west, and west it flew. Along its way, the raven found near perfect homes, and settled in each time. And each time, it was not satisfied with the nests, thinking, "nothing except my maple tree can be my perfect home".
Finally, one day, the raven flew to this perfect land full of green grass, lush trees and warm sun. And in the middle of this luxuriant field of grass stood this one single maple tree. It was the biggest tree the raven had ever seen, and it was beautiful. The raven flew nearer to the tree, and just like the many dreams it had before, there was an unoccupied hole in the tree. The raven had found its perfect home!
Or so it thought.
The raven gathered all it needed to furnish its new-found home, and every morning he awakened to the sweet scent of maple sap and the music of birds chirping. It was supposed to be happy, but it was far from happy. Something was missing.
Then, one night, the raven dreamt of its first nest. It was the boring nest where it ate in, slept in, and 'shat' in. But it was also the nest where it spent it chickhood, the place where its happiest memories belonged to.
It was its real, perfect home.
The raven flew east, and east it flew, back towards of its real home. Months passed, yet the raven flew through lightning, thunder, rain and wind without stopping. When it finally reached home, all the raven saw was horror.
All that was left of its chickhood was a rotting tree stump in the ground. Its perfect home was gone.
What you want to have could already have been there all this while.
kai-mmunist teachings 6:32 PM
