The Fatigue of Beauty

            An elderly man sits in the shadow of his youth. By the river he looks for the vulgarity of nature. The mountains far beyond the dividing rushing river part the untouchable veil of blue. They reach for the realm of the gods, trying to become the great Mount Olympus. An autumn covered forest ignites with a non-burning fire as Ra carries the sun across the sky. On this day even Zeus keeps the skies clear. No storm will fall on the elderly watcher.

            The children of Pan scurry about the woods that border the clear water river. A chipmunk, the tiny and friendly rodent, takes a moment to observe the observer. Its dual white stripes rush down from its forehead to its small brown tail. Against the bark brown fur, the white is thrown at the eyes with a divine contrast. Vivid live green inhabits the rodent’s eyes, shining with the light and blessing of Apollo. Two blinks command the chipmunk away. 

            In the stream, old eyes regard the counter-current salmon. Their scales shine bright with the rays of Ra. But not even these children and supplicants of Poseidon are able to stir the heart of the visitor. The great deities can conjure beauty all they wish, but neither Helen of Troy, nor the great Cleopatra, could capture his eyes. Aphrodite’s touch has no influence on him. Only Seth’s expression of chaos and power may satisfy the tired man.

            In one final attempt, the chariot of Ra rushes towards the twin peaks. Zeus strikes down mighty bolts on the slopes of the mountains, crushing rocks and toppling trees. The light turns orange as the sky is engulfed by the warm colors of experience. The flaming land touches the vibrant pink sky through the smoking peaks of duality. Seth’s influence begins to take form far away, but the divines keep it apart from the serene image set before the old mortal. It steals the breath from other inhabitants as if the Almighty himself had taken it away.

            But the elderly gentleman lets out a sigh of disappointment. He rises to his feet with aching joints, places his old hat onto his head, and then turns his back on the grand scene of the gods’ making. “Another day wasted.”

-Zero