“My soul is in the sky“- Shakespeare, ‘A Midsummer Night’s dream.’
“I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky. How beautiful thou art!” -John Keats, ‘
At the beginning of time, I was Ouranous, fearsome and abusive husband of Gaea, tyrannical and subjected to the first patricide by my son Kronos.
Then, I became a curse to Atlas.
In the times of the Renaissance, I became a landscape of wonder as everyone pondered upon the truth of all the heavenly bodies I held.
In the hands of the various romantics, poets and writers alike I became the object of romantic fascination. Of course, the moon and the stars that ‘lighted’ my ebony shade at night were the real objects that piqued their interest but I was there too. I was there holding tight the stories of lovers never to be united, I was the thread that stitched up the broken hearts and kissed their restless minds, goodnight.
At first, all humans gazed at me endlessly for the precious, glimmering blemishes that marred my skin but now I was to harbour their intangible burdens of the mind as well.
Then came the artists reimagining me, ‘perfecting’ me, tearing away at whatever semblance of a self-confidence I had left.
I’ve been hated, mutilated as I harboured the scrutiny of a million gazes, drunk and lost, marvelling at my scars and blemishes. People rejoice at the sight of my tears and kiss, it as runs down their bodies, trembling as it mixes with their tears, their tongues chasing a clean droplet.
I release my anguish for my children.
I’ve become a toy, a canvas comparable to Etch-a-Sketch at their hands.
I give and they take, I feed their hearts which hunger for some company, as loss consumes their beings.
The particles they throw at me are the ones I use to change my skin tone to bring a ceaseless array of colours for their eyes to feast in.
Now I know you want some closure. Of how unjustified I feel. How frustration and insecurity crush and wrinkle me to the point where I am unrecognisable to myself.
But forgive me, that’s one thing I cannot afford to give. Because at the end of it all, I’m something that cannot speak, think. I am not an entity no matter how much you try and personify me.
At the end of the day, I’m something very illusionary that you in a futile manner try to define your limit to. If I don’t exist, your limit doesn’t. If I am a mere illusion, your limit is a mere illusion.
Go beyond me. Even this ‘I’ is not me. It’s one of you personating as the non-existence itself.
It’s all useless and futile. But that’s what makes everything possible. Because nothing is stopping you. It’s all in your mind and at the end of it all, you control your mind.
Go. Be me. Become the sky and stretch endlessly.