17 September 2012
Below the sight of the six-footers, lies the lush, ever-green grass, caressing the summer breeze –as it cautiously blows between
the tiny delicate hairs of grass, feeding it awareness that its schedule has come.
These miniature hairs are not as dim as perceived, for many carry stories of grief and misery. Only those lucky have survived the downfall of the two-limbed, the rest - prudent enough to predict the near arrival of their 3rd, 50th, 51stappointment with those feeding torture to the harmless and deceased.
The porcelain birds among this magical haven, command the gates of heaven to open- as they sing in tutti amongst each other. Their songs: a moment of praise to nature. For giving them their awe less fluttering wings-so iridescent it’s blinding. With a single glance of the eye, it’s a glorious display of fluorescent colours, gold’s and greens, and browns, and reds; all playing their parts in this wonderful play.
With a slight movement up north, we catch sight of the reclining golden Sun, along its path of the day. Glowing luminously, lighting the hearts off the two-limbed, of the sweet singing bird, radiating the air with contenting warmth. The ever-green grass shouts with joy – for the sun, their mother has come to fulfil their needs of light. ‘Hooray, hooray!’ they shout, ‘hooray!’At last their long wait for nutrients has suddenly come to an end-as the Sun awards them their hearts desire, and now their hearts are content.
The honey-wrapped Sun lie’s just over the territory. The territory of the two-limbed. Where they go to make joy and exchange laughs with one another; where they play forever until the Sun’s eyes gradually begin to drop. That territory is the place for them, the place for the two-limbed inside our magical haven. Within their place stands a giant wooden frame. Painted dirty red and brown, where the cracks have forced their place. Here- the two-limbed climb and dive down the frame, finding ways to keep the smiles going.
Amid the Earth, the fresh grass senses an ominous foreboding. As the Sun gets sleepy and prepares its bed, the two-limbed begin to scatter.
The appointment has come.
There’s a change in the cool air as a sudden darkness falls upon the tiny hairs of grass, trapping them as they await their pre-determined fate. The two-limbed shoes crush the grass, moulding the stories-their history at the same time. Bending and twisting them in all different directions. They shriek in pain and agony, just as the two-limbed leap and scatter away.
Story • Opuss № I