Wish for Horses

I walked on cobbled pathways on a beautiful afternoon, the sun shimmering upon me with a mellifluous splendor. The morning had just witnessed a bout of showers and the air was alive with the scent of spring. Momentary showers bring respite, they bring changes to the scenery, they splatter creation with tiny shards of tepid water; some rush indoors to escape from it and some stay out to bask in nature shedding a few tears. I do not understand those who rush inside to shelter themselves from rain, acting as if their entire existence would be drowned by a few drops of liquid life. In fact, this day should have been the perfect opportunity for those caught in their stilted life to take a momentary respite. But still, as I walk tracing invisible footsteps I am surprised to see the absence of commotion.
It was a typical day of an early June. The rain departed and the world was suddenly flushed with a yellow light like a dollop of honey spread generously over a slab of bread. The sudden rain is quickly dried by nature’s own drier. The wonders of our existence continue to astound me, simple moments that take my breath away, finding joy in basking in the rain and then drying myself in the sun, being part of nature, part of fauna, being almost inhuman in my existence and strangely liberated from the confines of a physical body. There is a joy in me that transcend time, that transcends space and that transcends my existence.
I walk contemplating the complicacies of life when I noticed a sculpture of two horses gallantly running. The image was of a mother and her child, I could tell this more because of each one’s size relative to the other rather than any physiological accuracy. The statue was actually more granite than stone, a color that was dark brown and took on almost a black appearance covered them. The larger statue had a composed appearance, like a new mother typically is. She had an air of reassurance, of warmth and kinship that can be felt throughout. The smaller statue, of the child was a little more diminutive. The child was asunder, it was gallantly treading along, frozen in a midair leap, like grasshoppers on a rainy day. A bust, a statue, A three dimensional picture, I did not know for sure what to call it. All that I did know was that my heart was suddenly immersed in radiant feelings of comfort.
What was it, about this picture that comforted me? Was it the craftsmanship of the sculptor who carved a seemingly lifelike image from a block of stone, an entity that could not have been more devoid of life? Or was it the actual image? I think the true answer lay somewhere in the middle, wrapped in a masked covalence, hidden and unseen to the wandering eye. The answer lay in the rooted confined of my existence, stalled with a hemmed in extravagance.
Recent events have added to the meanings that I seek in life. The purpose of our existence, the answers that are sought in glaringly invisible lifestyles are furtively unanswered. The potential for losing a family relative has added my longing for comfort and has increased a sense of detachment to the world. As I squint my eyes, trying to shield them from the glare of the sun, I gaze in enraptured at the image before me. Why does this sculpture allure to me? I think it’s because of my personal struggles for comfort.
The image reminds me of the bonds shared between a mother and a child, reminding me of the tenuous bond that has the potential to be fragmented in our lives leaving all astray. It reminds me of the majestic nature of horses, the earlier form of carriage for human kind, a tireless warrior, a source of transport and a pallbearer of freedom. The horse has for generations served man with almost a servantile surrender. Its reeks of nobility, its poise is undying. The horse has the potential to carry us to great distances, transport us to a different world. It can help us escape persecution and has weathered storms. The image of a mother and a child galloping shows the forever circle of existence. The basic teaching imparted by creation transcends all species and kind. The horse stands tall, perpetual and as a beacon for all that we seek in our lives. We seek a liberator; we seek a being that would take us away from the madness of the world and onto better times. Religion has taught us to be kind to horses, recognizing their almost spiritual existence. Standing here on this unnamed street and with a heart that is vulnerable in its careening juncture at pettiness, I wish to be comforted by this granite monument. I wish for horses.


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