No Idun’s apple in the world
He walks around the sea pier every other Saturday.
Time betrayed him, life affront him, and his family walked out on him. He accepted God’s nature of caprice with placidity like he knows felicity is not for good. He even was wondering—what contingencies have not he met yet, what hurdle has not he braved yet, and what kind of suffering had not he drunk yet, as though a curious child.
You might think he is not affectionate, quite the opposite, he knew it well. Though he wants love and being loved, takes no account of love without passion. Sometimes he wants a woman, as from everyone, and this out-of-blue ardent desire irks him but never dominates him. People show love by knowing romance, but what is romance? People know very little. Women estimate romance but they do not understand what it is; men created romance once, but they forgot it, following women’s leading blindly and wrongly. So, he watches them at a loss, and he does not have the heart to feel this. If he could not have the best one, he is willing to give up it.
Under pink June sky, packed with people and shouts, turns into an impassioned night. He intends to elude from rumination and tranquility and drift into a vacuous orgy. Vulgar and shoddy bumpkins, chic and jovial youths, comely bobbed beauties, and unctuous snobs with serge suits, he wants to be one of them but in his heart recess, he is not able to. He is not born to be a stranger, however, he finds there is a place of heart and lucidity that is magnificent in its solitude in the end.
The world is too much with him, even so, he is still here watching the scintillate stars falling and rising which makes an unseeing trace. From the ravishment of breaking dust and rouged dawn, from the joy of the serene surface of a lake and the white foam of a sea, he gains the steadfast soul and selfhood which is invested by his own deity. He takes a long breath and lets himself be persuaded to love the nature and world. His heart is hurt, but the wound oozes honey.
Time passes with unimaginable rapidity, but the strong will of catching the time is not in him. He let it flow freely. A faint smile played on his lips, finally, he opened his heart to nature and let the tears fall but not weeping for grief, as he loves God but does not believe.
He opens the book, and reads the lines:
“The multitudinous Gods are but expedients to lead to the realization that the self is one with the supreme self.”
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