A Shifting Interpretation of The Pond (Short vers)

 

A Shifting Interpretation of The Pond

The broad slope was illuminated at an angle by the sinking sun in the west. Pale red flames of burning sun seemed to rush down upon all those standing in the area. The windows of the library were sparkling as if on fire. Streaming rays of the setting sun brightened the woods, which lay half in darkness. The deep green leaves of the canopy had spots that were coloured red. Sunlight shined majestically through the haze-enshrouded trees and glittered magically on the green grass of the ground ahead. Trees flowed by in a thick, warm looking film. The trail of red dye led to an opening in the woods, and the edge of a pond came into view. The surface of the pond reflected many trees that seemed to reach the bottom, and below it, the deep blue sky. When a person is agitated or requires something to calm them, it is not the spoken words of another being or the consultation of a helpful person that helps the most.

In previous years, it had reflected still, vivid images of willows and cherry trees on its softly glowing, warm-looking surface. Unperturbed lotuses swayed their perfect pearl white blossoms. A wonderful fragrance was carried by the wind to the shore from their golden centres. The mist along the line of the woods had a sepia tint in autumn. While walking along the shoreline of the pond various buildings would rise up out of the grove of trees like a needle in the distance. I hated to think that the sky would block the path ahead for the remainder of my lifespan. Every time I walk, nothing is solved. Every step that anxiety makes me take is one step deeper into anxiety. Thoughts represented by going somewhere without people and living by myself were at the doorstep. A place of relaxation, a place where people can lead a life undistracted and unconnected with the living world is required.

The focal point of the garden was the part of the pond directly in front of a bright low hill. Surrounding it were trees of an age and grandeur that were rarely seen in the region. Incongruous modern constructions did not trouble the trees rising majestically into the sky. A variety of birds visited this garden at their appointed time of the year, although the numbers and din in the migration season was incomparable with any other period. Beyond the tall grass that almost looked wild, butterflies flickered through gaps in the leaves.

The world became a still life picture sometimes. Decades ago, when smoking was not banned, certain teachers would seat themselves on benches or rocks around the pond and enjoy a quiet puff during break times. Smoke would drift in the afternoon light and hang in the windless air, heavy and bright like silk. Now, only tea was allowed to be consumed by the pond. The garden’s exquisite perfection left nothing, not the smallest clump of shrubbery, nor the least conspicuous flower or the smallest stone grown or placed by accident. A faint but bitterly cold wind blew over the pond, shaking wrinkles onto the surface. The hose at the centre of the pond created ripples that disappeared halfway to the shore. Autumn water was more pellucid than that in summer. The blue and cloud of the autumn sky mingled in the now trembling water to create sparkling blue rifts stretching to the opposite shore.

I looked up at the broad, unending sky. A meagre gleam was all that remained of the sunlight. A long wisp of cloud swept across the sky at an angle, like a line drawn with a brush in calligraphy. After entering a gate, I noticed the twin rows of gingko trees that lined the narrow path ahead. There was something strong and sad about the way the insufficient green leaves were scattered, too few to hide the branches. I walked on the sand carpeted with slender leaves which were mostly yellow but mottled with light green. The fallen leaves looked much fresher than the darker looking shrubbery above them. Part of the pond showed between the woods that shined in the evening sun with the deep, transparent blue of the background showing the soft hint of a muddy colour. I sat on a bench and drifted off. Sleep is the best ‘medicine’ for anyone with pain, anguish or worries. Time ceased to exist. Just then someone called my name.

It was the tall figure of a senior friend. He was one of the students I rarely saw around the pond. We walked together for a while and marvelled at the splendour of the scenery. But it was different. Our perspective was no longer of the natural and undisturbed world. Perhaps it was because we were together as two individuals. By the time we were out on the noisy street, we were in the real world. I am living. Living,thinking, doing.