Johnny walked among the wild shrubbery, forcing his tread through the grimy growth of the forest, weeds and earth crumbs clogged his way, tall trees with paucity of leaves left him vulnerable, he bathed in sun, heat suffused through him, dried him of his occupations, he could not walk anymore, he had to drink water. The rocky surface ahead offered no hope, but he persevered, for he had to see his humane task to completion. He stepped over a rock here, a rock there, over a tree trunk, slipped through the arches of dark mahogany trees, he proceeded as a warrior, who rode on a beautiful white horse to the battle field with shears, arrows, bow, helmet, each of which are presented to him by his people, who expect him to win, no matter what, warrior then fought with thousand hands, with winning on his mind, with the aim of killing in his blood.
All his life, he had been waiting for this moment; he read stories in his life, of different people, of their countenances, of their inclinations. Stories he read, were articulate, artistic and they detailed the characters with resplendent bethought. The accuracy of depiction amazed him, but he allowed himself room for skepticism, which guarded him from undue obsession and diabolically ill contentment. 'How could one sum up a person with what he said or what he would', Johnny inquired. How so mystifying, yet how despicably accurate a portrayal is bestowed with, how can one chose to ignore the person himself? How instead is the praised portrayal showered with capacious demeanors, with the playful mannerisms, with overtones of allusions, illusions and irreparable accrual? The quality of portrayal is lost, subjugated, mitigated, so to fit the complexly interwoven plot, so to pronounce the premeditated climactic situations. Plot devours the characters, leaves weak, amputated and merciful bodies with need for cloaks, which would exude false life with each ushered adornment.
A person is more than the sum of his spoken words, his participatory decoration to a colloquial is often exaggerated, misquoted, felicitated dubiously; his surroundings are reduced to aid the intake of the low lying character. The natural beauty, the art and the intellectual integrity is constrained, for the novel cannot afford to spell out the cerebral intensity, lest the plot's outcry should be suppressed. Everything is belittled, even the character play, which occurs naturally, without which, the portrayal of character is limited.
Johnny always thought it stupid to attribute charm to a character or to deny the worthy share of appreciation, both these bipolar extremes depressed him, he found them repulsive and cruel. His play of action was confounded within these extremes with no certainty of finiteness. He did not see this stage of play constrained within, without the play of extremes, he instead bethought the stage limitless, he virtually redefined the boundaries, and he let the characters play out on the stage. He despised force entry of action, needless, absurd and pretentious colloquies, his characters ruminated like the people in real life do, his characters were inaccurate, they were far from complete, they were not presented by him, an outsider. Characters presented themselves, in bits and pieces, as imaginations, as memories of other characters, as perceived, as acquired, but not wholly conceived, for that was impossible and frivolous.
Johnny’s plot was always sloppy, delicate, and drooping, like the real lives, never really apprehended, never intoned in unison, when smitten against a backdrop of virtual reality. In his plot, one would lose direction and sense searching for a common intonation, one would grope through the dark alleys and blind spots, but would never find a more clearer perspective, a whole, for there was none. His plot was not chaotic, but was not fine either, was not confusing, but was not deplorably communicative either. They had a disjointed feel, they left emptiness in the readers that were used to the feeding of highly decorated works, works that sought remonstrance from Johnny, he often ridiculed them, but the ease with which those writers brushed his critical treatment of their work bemused him. They pronounced themselves professors of artistic intelligence, he confronted them, and they blandished him. He was out of their circle, and for that Johnny delightfully consented, for what ignominy can an artist endure, if his artistic endeavors cease to puzzle him with discord naturally, but, instead fall beautifully into place, like logs of wood, how dangerously similar all of them appear, how as a log they aid the artist in pursuing his pre-desired goal, seeking acknowledgement.
Wind gained momentum, caught rain on the way and exploded heavily on the forest, rain wetted the tree trunks, dried leaves, splintered over the smooth rocks, ran down the precipice, down the tree trunk, and down the sweat coat he was wearing. The violence of wind fostered communion, of Johnny and the forest, 'I am now a participatory element in this glorious conflagration' he thought, incessant rain smothered him for room, his overcoat got heavier, he rushed fast to stand by a tree with monstrous trunk. then it stopped raining, leaves on the ground no longer rattled as he stepped over them, leaves now curled inwards with the weight of rain water, air appeared thin and stately, very clear, tree trunks turned dark brown, and now looked more real, rocks so smooth that he dare not climb over them. A bird raised here, a bird there and soon they all flocked together merrily, dancing, mimicking, whiffed overhead helter-skelter, and finally flew away to the unapproachable heights above the forest. From there, they watched each tree head, some dead, some exhausted, some sprouted populously with young leaves, while others displayed illimitable aggression of life, they watched water running down the precipice, running down the rock crevices, running into streams, running out of streams, conglomerating into a massive body of water that flew into canals, into rivers, that quenched the thirst of populace, that supplied for irrigation, that supplied for factories, and finally uniting with the infinite force-the sea.
A leaf grabbed Johnny’s attention, he plucked it and held it by its stalk, and it had nerves of thin pale green all over it, inside it. He held it against the back drop of the picturesque and clear sky, rain washed it, it appeared immaculate in its form and shape, it began strongly and thickly from the stalk, grew outwards obliquely, must have sensed encroachment, now grew inwards to meet the tip of the leaf, thickness dissipated and the leaf grew weak at the ends. It looked magically balanced by the branch before he plucked it, now it looked a mere specimen of beauty, to be acknowledged, but no longer was worthy of it, for languor weighed it down, and it stooped downwards at the end, when held by its stalk. It lost its strength; the tree was its strength, its life. Johnny in his blissful ignorance disunited the beauty and life, but both existed in unison and never separate, this was his story.
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