The Portrait's Final Stroke

The stinging sensation along the range of my right forearm has been a nagging reminder of actions five hours past. Though the nettles, applied for their medicinal properties, have long been removed, their namesake continues to drag my attention to the slowly shrinking, pulsing blisters where their barbs still inject venom to my veins. Through the annoyance (calling the feeling “painful” is a gross overstatement), thoughts flutter wondering how much longer the tingling will last. Effectively, my arm is awake yet feels asleep as if its circulation has been cut off, begging for restoration of its lifeblood. Similar to a blood deprived appendage, only time will heal the nettle's caress.

Although time heals self-inflicted toxins, time also ages and refines experiences. Beyond the nettle poisons coursing through my veins, these past three weeks, filled with boar semen, soil snorting, crunched legs in a compacted car and the associated aching pains, wind turbine induced insight, and countless other events, short or long, mundane or extrasensory, comforting or offensive, are also subject to the ravages of time. How will I reminisce upon the people, places, smells, events, and the host of other factors? To predict whether the memory of corn (will it be green or blue in my mind ten years from now?) is outside of my prowess. The sands of time bury remnants of former glories, tarnishing their pastel colors into shades of muted monochromatic grays. Impermanence is a key feature of reality; none shall escape its grasp as memories muffle no matter the strength of the stimulus whether it be a worn picture, a vaguely familiar scent, or rediscovering these very musings now being typed in spite of the nettle's tantalizing grip. All such aspects are eroded by the patient sands of time, the fragments whisked away in the winds.

However, do such thoughts on the future matter? The below poem comes to mind:

He who binds to himself a joy

Doth the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity's sunrise.

-William Blake

The only tense where life transpires is the present. The past is always a step behind, and the future is always a step ahead no matter the pace. Hence, I now contemplate (a boon distinctly human) over what to make of yet another frame becoming immutable history. Murky stew within the mental cauldron is stirred and stirred waiting for something...anything to arise from its hazy depths. Another series of interrelated occurrences is slowly but artfully being kneaded into itself and all the other bygone days to be baked into a loaf that displays its flavor in every bite. The kneading metaphor is more accurate than the chapter metaphor for describing the end of the old and the return of the new for chapters, by nature, create barriers whereas kneading bread has no barriers. All the ingredients and motions become one with the loaf; the wheat cannot be separated from the yeast, salt, or any other ingredient. By kneading, all these aspects become interconnected with one another even when an entirely new event is mixed in.

However, it is not enough to describe how these three weeks have affected me. Such thoughts are dealt with whenever a mirror is present! Although there is much to mull over within my internal world, a forgotten aspect of events needs mentioning. The reason behind its dismissal is simple; the world we interact with is seen only from one perspective: our own. Never can we see the world through the guise of another (hence why many are sympathetic but few are empathetic). Therefore, we forget that not only do occurrences move us, but we move all factors of an event: the people, the interpretation of that event, and even the event itself! With that in mind comes the true challenge: thinking beyond the self. How have I affected all components of these three weeks, soon to be time-locked and outside of my grasp? How have I altered the course of other people I have ran into even if for the briefest second or the longest hour? How have I manipulated the itinerary of these three weeks whether through my own connections or by simply showing up a few minutes early or late? How have I changed the world around me by rummaging around in dirt, killing burdock, or reanimating chicken corpses for comic relief?

Of the three above-mentioned questions (though there are certainly many more), the first racks my mind most profusely. Although few realize it, every single action, from a convoluted discussion on nothing down to a simple hand gesture, influences those around. Subsequently, the question of what impact, how strong, and many others arise like bubbles emitted by a fish in a placid pond. Due to the interconnected nature of reality, these questions are omnipresent to those who desire to see them. Though it is beyond me to provide answers to such thoughts, I can, however, provide an old parable with a modern twist:

A father and mother return home to a carbon monoxide leak with their children still within the now deadly dwelling. Fearing for the safety of their offspring, the parents call out desperately, warning the kids of the danger. However, the children, not knowing the gravity of the situation, since the noxious gas is tasteless, odorless, and otherwise undetectable through the five senses, do not heed the warning and continue playing, oblivious of the danger. Time agonizingly passes while the parents' ill-fated pleas go unanswered. Then, in their darkest hour, the parents conjure a solution. Now, they call out to the children, appealing to their love of games and toys, a penchant all kids have, instead of to a mysterious malevolence. The children quickly rush out of the death trap unaware of its true nature to the rejoicing parents.

Skill in means: knowing what, when, and how to perform an action to attain a desired result, is something to be struggled for and an ability that I strive for so then the above questions need not to be asked much like how a builder does not question how to drive a nail into a board; it is as natural as breathing.

A foot leaves a print upon wet sand, while the sand leaves grains upon the foot. In this vein, these three weeks have impacted me a great deal, ranging from my thoughts on agriculture (no matter how it is cut, farming is terribly difficult) to my self-development, while my impact upon these three weeks shrouds itself behind a veil of mystery. All I can wish for is that my presence and the skill in means I employed achieved positive goals and assisted those in need (to whom that is remains beyond my knowledge) because the events, people, and all other aspects of these three weeks were momentously meaningful and indescribable for me (and a one-way relationship is not desirable).

Very soon will come the wind to take me wherever it pleases. Though it is an amazing transporter, the likelihood of returning to any particular spot is nigh-impossible. Hence, all I can do is be open to it, taking these experiences away to new lands to be applied to new situations. Now, I sit and wait for the wind...as I always have...as I always will.