Love Story
AijaIevietots: 11. sep 2011 01:06
Once upon a time, there lived a singing bird and a flying fish. The singing bird dwelled in trees and bushes. The flying fish lived in deep waters. The singing bird sacrificed every instant to sing her soul out in awe of all the beauty upon the Kingdom of God. The flying fish gathered every instant to accumulate strength to fly – to reach the world beyond his domain. The singing bird was happy, flying from tree to tree and singing of love, life, and joy. When she was tired, she returned to her cosy nest and dreamed of realms out of her reach. She woke again, and sang of her dreams, her love, and beauty around. She was happy, indeed. Every instant shined. An every second, at least, deserved praise, painted in lullabies and elegies. She was in love with life, or – was it God she loved in truth? She cared not for the answer. The answer could not be cared of. It could be only lived – with love. And love she did. The flying fish was happy, every moment a challenge and an adventure. He sped upon the streams and slid through weeds. He waved to his comrades and up he flew – up, up, up! Life was great. Water world was fun. But the one beyond – such a thrill! And other fishes knew none of it. He alone could reach those heights, and his brothers. Dolphins, too. But – did they count? He was the one of the race of fishes. The One was all. And being the one felt very close. Life was great, indeed. Light tinted his world with shades and bells. He was mute, he knew. But he was deaf by no means! He heard that wonderful voice that sunlight brought even to the underwater world. He heard, he heard! And if he sensed that tinkling, that mesmerising wave, it became the calling. His calling – to reach the above water world and see the owner of that voice, the voice that twisted his dreams, or – was it life it twisted in truth? He could not tell. He was mute, you know. But he was determined to find it out, for find he could. Then came the day. If they had read the Bible, they’d know that it was the day of the Apocalypses – foretold long before their very ideas matured, forewarned of, encoded in their DNA. They’d always known – it would come. Deep down, they’d known. But they had never elicited a conscious apprehension of their fate. Not until the day. If the singing bird was one with love, then the flying fish had not the least idea of what love tasted like. Could it be eaten? Stored to increase benefits, as he did with strength that he measured in units of time? Could it at all be expressed as time? And more importantly – as time worthwhile? He could not tell. And you know, why. He had followed his calling. He had sped and pierced that mystic veil a thousand times or more. Alright, he did not count them. Not those miraculous instants that felt very close to a revelation. But no real revelation ever came. Those moments came and went as fading dreams. Where they real at all? And the idea of his being able to fly? Do other fishes fly? Of course, not. But he was the one! Wasn’t he? Every time he pierced the veil of water and stopped the wheel of time for a frozen second as fireworks do before they explode, and he’d been so lucky as to see more than some for reasons unknown, the flying fish was alone there. The sun was there, or the moon. And sometimes clouds. But they did not sing; not the music of his soul (he already called that song his own because he felt, he knew – that song was heard by him and him alone). So, was it he who sang? Or was there someone else – as cold blooded, as brilliant, as fast? Was there a match for him, a counter wave? It seemed there wasn’t. And every time he returned underwater as sad as joyful he had been while speeding up. But then came the day. The day when he flew up and saw her. He saw the Voice! He saw. And heard – the chime of billions of seaweeds and lobsters playing on tortoises and seashells. What a magnificent wave! Invisible underwater, so world turning here. He caught only a glimpse before the water hit him, but he jumped, and jumped, and jumped again to make sure. Yes, it was she. Most certainly. The Voice. And the Voice was waiting for him. She had waited for him for who knows how long. But he was there now. In the right place, the right instant. He’d made it. He’d met his calling! The singing bird did something very extraordinary. All began quite as usual. She flew and sang, and sang and flew. She was tempted by the sound of waves and flew to admire them (this was a little out of place, agreed, but only a little – she should have noticed them before). She sang louder, and with all the love of the world to recompense her neglect, as a glittering flash sparkled and faded upon a crest as a mirage. She almost choked her song in surprise, for she had sung long enough, yet, no such miracle had happened before. And there it came again! The golden splash! It materialised out of nowhere and was gone with her next note, yet, it was real! So He existed. The Beloved of her dreams. It must be Him – the Beloved. And she sang even better, if that she could. There was no time to clarify that. All that mattered was to tell him how much she loved him. She Loved Him! And from that day, the day they had met each other, the singing bird and the flying fish kept regular dates. An even greater yearning made them ache for each other because the dream was now so close. They met as often as they could. She was the Voice, and he – the Beloved. Those were the dates of two deities. But deities have that annoying tendency to vanish once they’ve tamed their prey. And one day, the singing bird realised that her Beloved is just a flying fish. A fish! And the flying fish was astonished to find the Voice to be a mere tiny bird. A bird! What non-sense! If they had been men, they’d rub their eyes carefully to make sure they had truly woken. But they were a bird and a fish. They couldn’t rub their eyes. And the shock was much more astounding. It was as if they’d changed their places, as if the singing bird had dived underwater and drank it instead of singing it, as if the flying fish had bristled up his fins and sprang in the net of winds. Could it be the Voice, the Beloved? And an eternity made a somersault until they dreamed the aching answer. It was not the Voice, not the Beloved. But the flying fish was Her beloved, and the singing bird was His voice. And happiness shone again, caressing the repaired world with her shiny smile. They lived in their separate worlds and treasured every instant Its Grace conjured for them to become one. Who cared for her being a bird and his being a fish? It did not matter. What mattered was the light of truth that glittered in their eyes returning the echo.
Ieteikt