The Invisible Tight-Rope
Poetically pointing to the abode of true adulthood
Floating through space on this mud-ball called earth humans pop up as movable soil.
High echelons of cosmology seep through permeable tissue, to sit patiently, in the warm and moist mucous of uterine cavity.
Upon dilation and baptisms of life one exit’s the comfort of motherly womb to encounter their earthly experience.
A divinely reciprocated fall from grace spoken of honourably in every devote place.
Crawling through leaves of life: behind sofas, chairs, and four-poster beds, engulfing ones environment emphatically.
Absorbing all including unresolved issues parading generations as disciplinary love.
Oblivious to unresolved fungi, and stifling weeds of parental dictatorship; the toddler twirls in the delusional orbit of pleasure and pain.
Fearful, confused, and enraged by dichotomy, she flips the coin courageously — unleashing rebellious tantrums.
Hence, the psychological drama of blame and rage — burrow deep into the complexities of incarnation.
Stunted by the hazards of personification, and the ongoing strain of parental dictation, we curl up, like leaves — in shyness too.
Yet, under the guise of self-preservation, comes the pain of transformation, within the chrysalis of human hibernation.
Where the neophyte walks the tightrope of life — a thin line, yet to be found between love and hate.
Still, sighted in the human stern, a neutral abode — free from the entanglement of intellectual chains and duality.
For having fallen from grace, and landing flat on our face, climbing out of the bucket is a human rat race.
Drunk on the nectar of irresponsibility, we stagger home to stick plasters on the mirror, in fear of accountability.
Oh stubborn persona, thick as the trunk of a tree, adorned in cankers from rigid and inadequate parenting;
Engraved with words of wisdom that haven’t worked for adults, yet forcefully fed to naive youngsters.
Perpetuated by a society limping from war wounds, patriarchy, and counting an epidemic of mental illness.
Branches, withering from unresolved fungus: flowing through roots of multi-generational trauma and immature seeds.
Malnourished by deficient environments: leaves display angst, timidity, and dullness; thus, unable to detoxify society’s moral and mental pollution.
Sensitive to turbulence and depletion of love, the toddler withdraws his heart from adult transactions, and clutches onto intellect for dear life.
Still, after the storm there must be calm; for beyond the apparent differences of love and hate, or good and evil, await the wisdom of maturity.
For as quiet as it’s kept: adulthood evades the one encased in a persona.
But for now, autumn is upon us, and even trees launch a defence against the reduction of love.
Moving into dormancy, they turn inwards for stock inventory; conserving energy and absorbing less water.
Yet, humans reach outwards — for distractions, exerting more energy, and wasting bodily fluids.
As for the caterpillar, his fifteen long days of transformation, equate to decades of human delusion.
While full coverage of its chrysalis phase, escapes the intrusion of human eyes; decades of human delusion, escape the discernment of human minds.
Still, transformation is the rhythm of life; from insect to the sun, all must transform through the merciful principles of simplicity, patience, and compassion.
For although made from love, humans are encased in a crystallised dung of persona-hood.
Yet, seeds of observation sprout from fertilising qualities of manure; to pierce through delusions and dissolve all illusions.
Converting the stench of human persona to an immensely rich sweetness; an abundance, alluring even mango trees to patiently wade through storms and droughts in pursuit of ripened fruits.
For beyond ones hardened persona resides a neutral abode— unveiling the mysteries of life trapped within the confines of love and hate.
Thus, for one who walks the invisible tightrope, life’s a sweet fragrance, floating upon a cool summer breeze.
Kensu Fetsani
