Just Imagine ( Henoke Yeshetlla ( Poet) Part II)
I was reading a novel by Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, “The Death of Ivan Ilych Golovin” . In his novel, Tolstoy tells us the story of the causation : the story of Ivan’s death. Ivan, a high court judge of the 19th century Russia, living a carefree yet heavenly life injured his side while hanging up a curtains in his new apartment. Yes, hanging up an expensive curtain, which is bought to reflect his family’s superior status in the society. Ill only for a few weeks , he died from an incurable disease. Tolstoy wrote, “the dead man lay, as dead man always lie…as always the case with the dead, his face was handsomer and above all more dignified than when he was alive… the service began; candles, groans, incense, tears and sobs”.
And there comes my thought, flashing like a ray, and as hymen which is sang through the vibration of Jared’s Harper….and Imagine….
Imagine that you are a fish, say you are… just for the sake of assumption, even if it is know that a fish has something to give, imagination can’t heart us and so let us imagine. Let us take that supposition and proceeded: Imagine that an oil is poured in to the water you are living in and under , and you as a fish are aware of it …yes, it is poured , so that soon you will get suffocated by the surface tension of the oil and die and float on that vey same surface: you are no more a filter feeder, just a floating corpus, a glory for the polar bear, the vultures and the ravels. Imagine, being a fish you therefore are ready to give away everything ; your lateral lane becomes dumber, your peduncle, anal fin, scales, operculum, caudal, and eye are all died, henceforth you start missing the tide, the coldness of the ocean, the beauty of the diffracted sun, the harmony of flipping and even to make it more worst, chasing your pray in the underwater and the run away from the predator is all diminished to a dead end and both of you are floating side by side with no interest of chasing one another. Just imagine that you woke up one day, and noticed that the small sacs in your gill have collapsed, breathing hasn’t been an issue until then, but now it is, abandoning your underwater nest has been un-equivocal matter, but not today, or the floating and rippling of your own egg, its suspended beauty, that you are so determined to look after , that you are a father for is now became an igneous rock upon metamorphosis, just imagine . Either you are a Paedocypris Progenetica, or a whale shark…the bell is tooled for all of you to die and there will be no such a thing called fish. You are nothing but a dead fish and your life has come to an end not because you are unable to breath but because you are unable to stop the pouring oil; just imagine!
And assume that you are Ivan Ilych, not exactly him, but something like him; who is the ardent lover of a decorous life , a life approved by the society, a life regarded as part of the property of the external norms and forms , a life dictated , motioned and energized by public opinion. Just imagine, that you are a Judge as Ivan was and sitting in a court house as Ivan did and yet not thinking about the justice, but the beautiful furniture that you are planning to buy so as to decorate your new house, the new curtains that you are so excited to display it, and with your own virtuous thought, you are even willing to demolish the fence that surrounds your house so that a neighbor can see the beauty of your new curtains. Just imagine of being that person. You are exceptionally care free, the only thing that matters for you is your household; I mean your household, your new curtain, your beautiful wife ( even if she is not), your furniture and the back yard. You don’t have shame so you can’t feel that you are artificial, so too you don’t have courage that you will not abandon such a comfort zone and become a man. You are the founder of your lust, and off course you are at the peak of your own perfection. You have no ears to listen, but a tongue to talk, you have no heart to pity, but a belly to fill. If you have to die, you would like an insect, no footprint or history to tell. Petrified by the power of truth, rather than embracing it, you receded away from it. The egoistic ghost in you is clerical, so well dressed but not well addressed. Your life is indeed decorous, but its light is simmering as when sacrifice and patriotism preached upon it. Yes, you are rich, educated and out-spoken, but only to elevate the self not to reach out to the multitude that are needing your help. That is why demolishing your own fence to make your new curtain visible, as I said, will describe you best . Just imagine!