It’s dusk. The sun sets solemnly across the horizon- the warrior loves dusk. He has always felt that the spates of colors strewn across the sky at dusk leave behind a flicker that the eyes will never feast upon at any other time of the day. He sat at the nearby branch, a sole stricken one in the middle of an unknown desert, and he looked up towards the sun. The cloudy horizon have made the sun hardly visible to the naked eye. A faint light shimmering beyond the thin veil of clouds, that was all his eyes could muster to witness at the time.
The thin haze that has been coating the horizons around the place on a consistent basis had also deprived the warrior of his most cherished view- a peek towards the top of the mountain- bright and glistening. Every time he witnesses that peak, he feels like he does belong to that peak, to reach there one day has been etched in his destiny.
But now, there is no dusk, no mountain. All that exists was him, the desert, and the village, a village which he had long assumed would be an useful pit stop in order for him to reach his dreams. The warrior did not like it the moment he arrived in this village- where everyone worked very hard in premeditated routines in order to win the breads to survive the day. The warrior wasn’t an exception in this- he wasn’t given a prince treatment- he had to work to win his bread- for he has to wait until the clouds clear and the sun can rise up confidently and unleash its ray on earth without any barriers again.
Now, as the warrior lay against the sole broken branch in the middle of a dry desert on which the village is located, he feels exhausted, tired, dread. The everyday routine at the village had had its taxes on his energy and enthusiasm. His resources are drained by the end of the day, and he couldn’t have his daily glance beyond the horizons to look at the peak of the mountains that he wishes to conquer one day.
What is happening to his life? Where have his dreams brought him to? Why is the haze so thick he can’t see his destination? He abandoned a kingdom of comfort, security, all to secure the reality of this one dream- he travelled through ages of uncertainty about where his destination would lie, spent so many years of the journey travelling all alone- but as long as he was on the move, when he had his evenings by the crystal clear lake, or under an autumn tree drooping with gorgeous brown leaves, practicing the art of swinging and slinging his sword, as his horse fed on the natural leaves at every stop he pauses at, looking at her master in awe and loyalty.
Today, the sword rusts in the little camp, in which the warrior retires every night- and the warrior shoots the sword a glancing, solemn look, wondering when the time will come for him to ride off into the sunset again, the sword piercing elegantly across his back. His horse waits tied outside the camp, feeding on the same grass everyday, entitled to the same routine the warrior is being subjected to.
The warrior sits and contemplates, wishes he is on the move rather than remaining here- but this is the pit stop he needs to take in order to reach the peak of the mountain. He is made to be on the move, not to rut in a rust. He is made to conquer that peak, not to sit idle doing regular work.
But then he thinks of that sunny day where, when the warrior did not know which direction he should take to reach the mountains which seemed so distant away- when a saint appeared while the warrior was walking on a bed of tulips holding hands with his princess.
The saint pointed in this direction- on the first morning in which the princess held his hand- the direction of this small village; that the warrior should start a life there, and that’s where his journey would have its starting point. The warrior knew there and then, that it was a sign, for he was holding the princess’ hands when the saint looked down from the high hills and pointed his ageing stick in this village’s direction. Upon which the princess gave him a warm smile- so wide it made his insides tingle with joy and warmth.
The warrior walked deeper into his tent, wondering about the crossroads and uncertainty he is facing in his life. Every warrior has to trudge a path of mud in order to be worthy champions. This is his alley of mud. An alley where he can lose all that he is- where he has to hold on tight in order to retain his will, passion and dreams. That is his test.
The pain is true, the discomfort is true, the itchy feet is true, the difficulty is true. But the warrior has accepted it- come to terms with it. This is what will make him a worthy champion.
But as he lies down his head gently on the princess’ shoulders with her brimming smile still there, he knows for a fact- it’ll be alright.
No comments:
Post a Comment