The Final Masterpiece

The wind tickled my face as the clouds hovered above, and the gentle raindrops fell as tears on my overawed face. I looked up at the stars, and in that moment, it felt as if they were gazing at me as well; wondering who it was that looked at them so longingly and knew them by heart; who it was that loved to pretend, or rather believe, that they were one of them.

I was lying down -my hair sprawled lazily on the earthen floor- as I watched the clouds moving across the ether that seemed to have been created from the scraps of an old palette; all the strange colours that one lucky child in school would bring in their briefcase full of art supplies. There was lilac, and rose, and the reddish-orange of a cedar bark; there was amber and crimson, and chrysoprase green, and there was a deep, deep, almost prussian blue.

These hues seemed to have been smudged messily by the finger of a not-so-experienced artist who had somehow managed to create something, and, not being quite sure what that something could be, had given up on it. The stars had been kept blanketed by a dusty white sheet, shielded from the eyes of the unobservant; but if these crystal gems could be someone's castaway, then I truly would love to witness their masterpiece; but could someone with such high expectations really be satisfied enough with their own creation to be be able to label it a masterpiece?

I was still pondering on this subject, when all of a sudden I noticed that the clouds were moving much faster. Were they moving forwards or backwards? It really is quite strenuous to tell since the clouds have always been creatures of silence. I suspect that the wind assists them in matters of sound.

Their migration, however, seemed familiar to me, but I could not tell why.

On further rumination, I learned from myself, or rather my other self -for I am constantly debating my true identity- that this familiarity had stemmed from the concept of change, which has always been something that I am timorous of.

Change is a difficult but necessary thing in this world. The clouds change, the sky changes, the wind changes, the stars, the earth, the sun, the moon; the entire universe changes every second, every moment...all in front of our eyes.

And us mere mortals? A speck on the horizon of time, a drop...on the banks of reality? Why, we are obliged, we are honored to alter with these funnily artificial concepts! However, along with this obligation, we are also saddened, by this commute; for change is the harbinger of uncertainty, and this disquietude or dubiety is what locks us within raging cages; cages built aeons ago, within our already prison-shaped minds.

It is therefore difficult to say if change is good or bad when we are so very afraid of it. Perhaps if we attempt to understand why it is so, we may realise that it is not change, but uncertainty which makes us this afraid. For this is the true culprit of our own weaknesses, and also our continual attempts at finding weaknesses in others. We are constantly confused about our own selves, and hence -though it cannot be justified- we pretend to understand others so that we may misjudge their character without being choked in a stream of guilt.

I found myself being taken back to my previous conundrum, that of the final masterpiece. And I realised that I had the answer.

It is us, dear Reader! Me and you! For the creator of such bewildered and obfuscated souls could only be a prodigy, and if we are their valedictory creation, then we must be the beautiful, radiant, clement, yet winsomely complex, final masterpiece.

#writing #writer #prose #masterpiece #thoughtreservoir