Of questions and no answers

You know, there are times in your life when you come across events that belie a lot of your beliefs. And also when you start questioning them there are no answers forthcoming. Waters are gray and murky. There is a search for that elusive white conch. The waters that wash up on the banks are frothy, a dirty hue. To want to dip your hand into the murkiness is irksome. But there is not much choice than to do so, the golden sands of time seem to have been roasted to a dark shade of black, the river you know is not really made of clear, gurgling, true water. Yearning to see the pebbles on the beautiful river bed No beautiful flowers that have fallen from branches washed up. Sometimes the sands seem to be a quagmire with the threat of being quick and you wonder what was it that changed something that you believed to be unchangeable. Or was it a mirage all along? Things that are supposed to be a fall back, the knowledge that the sky can still be a clear brilliant blue, the kind I saw on the skies of Orlando. The setting sun splashes pails of color on a concave sky. An errant thought crosses my mind like strands of hair slicing the air across a disturbed visage. Hurting the eye in the process. It is strange is it not, when the vise of despair grips a sore heart with claws that make you bleed. Every small thing that moves around you reflect your inner turmoils. Why, I think, is that the colours happen on the rim of the concave. Why not at the center. Please spare me the sciences and the doctrines. It might be within my comprehension but I choose not to walk that path. I look for an answer or at least a proxy for the answers I seek. A substitute is supposed to be good enough, ain't it?.
Why is it that such divine shades happen at the edge? At the edge of day?
I still dip my hands into the murky gray waters searching for truth. Yes the water is dirty. I convince myself that it is for the good. I am looking for that pure white. Pristine. Smooth. A conch that I can hold to my ear. Something, I can grasp with fingers fast losing their grip. The vise set into motion by hands that once entered the realms of a trusting world has changed shades - Or was it that there I had just trusted a garb that had been thence shed? - the grip tightens. The heart struggles to withstand the ravage.
Waters gets murkier. Vision blurs and becomes cloudy. The clouds that cross are a dark gray too. Salty rain. Somewhere in the distance a lone candle with a wee flame tossed about enters my sky of the gray clouds. It seems like me. I feel like I am the flame. I am scared of unknown devils grabbing my hand in all the murkiness and dragging me down a dark hell. I strive to be the white lotus in a dirty pond.
The search for that pristine pure conch that I can put to my ears continues. That which will not just play me the sounds of the water in the air waves. Waves of sound. That which will but whisper, this too shall pass. Give me answers. Of the times and personas I have failed to comprehend. Its not all that plain and simple, is it? I have been standing in front of a ripple-less curtain of glass put up on a beautiful meadow. Something I thought would always gives a clear vision of the whatever is happening in front of my eyes. Its almost as if it is not there. Like a veil that your vision adjusts to; like lenses that are supposed to aid better vision. But in a strange way, I think it has been some sort of a meek shield. That sheet of glass is now but reduced to shards that slice across fingers that fight reason and try piece it together. Drawing blood. Drawing salt and water. I see the indentation on the soil that has borne the sheet all through this while. A deep scar. Now, its almost as if vision has been awarded to a person who has been blind. You know and do not know what you see. You know colours by name. But how do you identify them? You know the definition of round, square and rectangle by ear. Your ears comprehend shapes and colours. But you do not know if you have identified anything. The brain enters the war of comprehension.
My hands are no longer dipped in the gray waters. The skin on my hands have a sick pallor. My wrists now wear an uneven bracelet of residue that clings to my skin. And they shall remain there. The thing is, only I can see them. You need my vision to see them. I could give my eyes away, but is my vision really mine to give? Or does anyone even want to see things the way I see them?
I still look for the conch. Pristine. White. Pure. The one with the answers. Should I stop looking? I am left with shards of glass at my feet, a scar of a long mile. I am scared to take a step either way. Wishing to be engulfed by the earth then and there.
The mind takes the shape of a baby in the womb. Curled. Awaiting the birth of a new dawn. If there is one..........