Seasons and Impressions

By: Cynthia Ann Katon-Alfonso

Sep 13 2011

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Category: My Poems and Garden

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Aperture:f/5.6
Focal Length:55mm
ISO:200
Shutter:1/50 sec
Camera:NIKON D60

What lies buried in the slumbering recesses of the soul is bound to awaken when the silence of the seasons is disturbed.

Somewhere, someway, memories rebuild themselves slowly into an awakening, so that we occasionally wonder whether everything really depends on our definitions of silence, especially the silence of the seasons.

Our quiescent mind is jolted back into the reality of our interpretations or misinterpretations of the focus of our existence, somewhat akin to a precipitated drama thinking life solely in terms of assignments, schedules, workshops, and deadlines.

How we have forgotten that life was built on empathy and affection, on love, sincerity, and covenants. And how we have twisted the seasons, stifling everything into silence, forgetting to distinguish night from day, even right from wrong.

The beleaguered soul is coerced into submission by the will of the body, crushing every single detail of affection and loyalty in friendship, of fidelity to spouse, of love and sincerity.

The summer stars have been engulfed by the man-made blackholes. Soon, evening comes, but the night sky only appears as a wide, endless expanse of black with nary a star in sight.

The decadence of the soul, death of love, the profaning of the once-held sacred ideals, the surrendering of moral values to the vile lust of the flesh and its insatiable material desires — I wonder whether these are just episodes of life’s passages?

 All these bring me back to myself for I, too, have been changing in some unexplainable way. My old self can no longer trust an old love. Betrayal has so mortally damaged my self-esteem. Seasons have been changing out-of-orbit with my self-capacity to heal wounds of pain and neglect. Countless times I tried, but the child in me had stopped shedding tears and had grown tired. The child now seeks its own solitude and wants to write an obituary of its Spring and Summer.

Can anyone be frank? Is there still a friendship (or marital love) that can go beyond a lifetime?

This I found is a tragic thing about love – lovers are always unequally matched. One always overshadows the other so that the one who overshadows creates in the other his or her incapacity for growth and development, for self-respect and spiritual flowering.

It created in me a torturous, insurmountable desire to escape, to be free to grow, but the pain was so mortal, it had pierced the core of my being, the root of my soul.

I can always go back to the old thoughts and beautiful memories, but what good will it do?

For now, I have chosen to take my own voyage in the train of my mind along the roads bounded by the seasons of time.

Maybe, the wounded soul may find once more the comfort and the tenderness of love in the next season. Maybe the impressions would change into a more meaningful episode where there is no further traumatic aberrations nor destructive obstructions along a calamitous path.

I may yet overtake the seasons as I journey into what may still be summer in another continent.

 

But everything really depends on our interpretations of the seasons – every Fall and Awakening and the beautiful memories of its Spring, or… the threatening cold silence of Winter that signifies the end?

 

Hopefully…

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