Thursday, November 25, 2010

My very Fiddler's Green

I was a little over the niceties. With the formalities and social behaviours. With the how-do-you-do's and what's-for-lunch conversations. With the strain of putting up a freshness when you are drained of all freshness.

It isn't such a wrong thing, trust me. (That is, if you are concerned about the right-ness or wrong-ness of it all.)

So I stole away after buying some lunch. There is this little enclosed garden space that sits next to the roaring motorway. Enclosed by greening trees. With a decrepit wooden table and a plank that serves as chair. It is sparklingly green. And the flowers of many kinds litter the ground, almost uncontrollably.

Fiddler's Green. If such a place existed for travel worn sailors, here was my Fiddler's Green.

I lied on the deep green grass. Slightly moist. And it was the most beautiful view from where my head rested. The glorious blue sky. The light fresh boughs of tree nodding sleepily. Sparrows tottering up and down them.

"It's the most beautiful view," I told myself.

And there is something about daisies that I love. They give me life lessons everytime I see one.

How they exist almost effortlessly. Almost living without obligation. Without any strings attached. Just a flower that comes out and dies away when it has reached its time.

As though its only purpose was to exist. And be.

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