In one way or another, we are all collectors, some of us collect things, some of us collect memories, some words or phrases, while still other collect or make relations with people. Our collections are remnants of our forgotten past, but they are either too valuable to forget or we are just too squeamish to ignore them. These collections, the pieces of our glorious past, remind us of our past and put us at an upper hand rendering us capable of connecting the dots between these pieces. On the landscape of blurred vision that our past is, these collections serve us in navigating to towards the horizon, the path becoming increasingly clear as we travel towards it. Some have gone so much deeper into the horizons that they just never returned from there. Some just live in their past, they embrace past with their arms wide open, never to let go of it.
More often than not, the rubber corks that our collections are over the undulating river of conscience never drown as long as our conscience is alive. As long as the river is undulating, as long as the conscience is separated from the blue sky over the misty and foggy morning space, we push our boat, slush, hither and thither. But as we spend more and more time on the dreamy space, in the river, we might actually witness the horizon, the sun would rise, piercing through the thorough morning fog with his razor sharp swords of light. And, here, we witness the blue sky above our conscience, for the first time, we witness the horizon, not in entirety but blinding as the sun is, won’t allow us to see though his superior aura. But we lean our heads skywards and stay benumbed, opened up as flowers do early on winter mornings, we expose ourselves to the sky, naked we stand there, floating in the river of conscience. The beautiful morning glory powers us, the cold river now becomes warm, and the underwater life awakes.
One has to wait a little longer, following the course of the rubber corks-our collections- we row towards the horizon, the teeming birth, and the origin of our conscience. With the assistance of the cork and the warmth of the conscience, we row towards the horizon as the sun himself vacates the horizon to watch the spectacle form above. This dominance of our position, the weakening sun who escapes into the sky, the water that is hot and becoming hotter by the minute, all of these indicate fruition in the vicinity.
But our collections despairingly fail us. They aid us only until a point, but beyond this point, we are left alone without any further communication. We know nothing more, the river is calm now, we have rowed into the interiors of the river and the undulations are no more. The river is no more alive, the conscience is trapped, it gives away like a porous membrane and with sickening and maddening oblivion encumbering us, we return to the shore. As we return to the shore, we encounter our first collection, the first rubber cork, and the closest of all to the horizon, and the next, and the next. With every new collection, we shoot past a milestone in our past, and the conscience becomes more and more turbulent with ripples pervading it as we come closer to the shore. Then, hopelessly we reach the shore, and get off the boat with the sun setting on the opposite side, in the future, inviting us to explore the horizon of the future.
But, we are apprehensive, for the rugged and mountainous terrain ahead that fills the eye sight so far as the eye can see leaves us depraved. And, the sun sets finally leaving us in the present with the solid conscience of the present. The river of conscience behind us, and the rugged terrain ahead of us; the solid unchangeable collections behind us, amorphous and nascent pellets of conscience in the future, we settle but in the present.
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