From Dreams to Postcards-Chapter: The Whimsical Jukebox

Falling into the bottomless pit, the abyss of ferocious figments of the self; dimensions are dissolving into each other; happiness and sorrow are one. The fleeting life of the corporeal and the weight of the heart exist in that moment, the 6 minutes of life?

She recedes inwards; giving up all the space she claimed for her being; her temporary fleshly existence. The self longs to dissolve into the system of things, into the circle of life and death where no identity is required, and just being is sufficient. She withdraws into her being, closing herself up for linguistic exchange, not willing to say words to make herself heard. This should shake the foundation of her universe because words were her arrows, her friends, and her strength and now she wants to abandon those. Words!

To whom shall they be spoken? Those words, those empty, human words; words that change their face in every language; words fickle as the stars appearing in the night sky; scarring forever but disappearing at the end of each dreamy night.

Her tiny victories in a day sound like pompousness to listeners, her little joys seem self obsession, her un-ending curiosity and her passionate planning falls on stony ground. There is no unwavering faith in her fiery passion, her never tiring energy on aiming big. There are no visionaries around her. But she knows that the rage inside is not a flame but a furnace that will only get bigger as she moves to the ocean and explores her limited being’s limitlessness.

She wants to stop making sounds; her voice is like prickly thorns to the bodies around her. They watch her speak but do not really hear her.  Their languages don’t not have the words she wants to use; their words don’t mean what she wants to say. So she decides, with the shortcomings of her mind and her misunderstood words that she must save them for the time when her language becomes known.

Where words fail, tunes will suffice; the tune of her raging passion, the tune of her curious questions, the tune of her adventurous dreaming, tunes of her unwavering spirit. Her being, a jukebox that plays a million wordless songs, flowing over the din of the crowded bazaar like a fragrant genie spirit, jostling midst the spice pyramids, the coloured muslin curtains where soothsayers caution waving their stone studded fingers, where rowdy parrots are sold by mischievous coolies, swinging their wares on delicately balanced head bands.


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