"The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy." -- Proverbs 14:10So the good news came. The heart was relieved of its long-carried burdens. Some joy was expressed, a prayer was said and thanks given.
But the flight of words also brought along a tinge of sorrow, a heaviness that began to sink in. Sorrow started as a small teardrop, that slowly, quietly, madly spread like a crimson ink blot over a white bibulous paper, a wildfire in the rainforest. It uncontrollably expands its circumference across the territory, contaminating the purity of the land and robbing it of any joy and life that previously sprouted.
I tried to contain the fire, I tried to stop the ink. But the selfishness that I did not discard catalysed the catastrophe. Bad thoughts fuelled the imagination, and imagination ignited more bad thoughts.
I re-read Till We Have Faces and felt like Orual in her veil. The ending lifted my veil, and brought some light, but I remained unconsoled.
It has only been a short journey, a small fraction of my entire life, but it felt like forever. It still feels like forever before eternity.
In between work and sleep, in between morning and nightfall, in between now and then, I carry this cup of penitence in hope that age will one day take it away from my hands.
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