Its hard to establish, but
everyone has a Treasure to search for. Trying to take it, it slips from our
grasp; trying to look for it in front of us, it moves to our periphery; trying
to run after it, it becomes a singular point of the horizon line. A treasure is
something to imagine, enjoy in abstract. Very rare is it for a person to win
their treasure. Most chase and reach it, to feel it at their finger tips, only
to give up at the point of contact. Its is a humans greatest fear, to attain
what they've always wanted.
Some see what they want to see,
others hear what they want to hear. Perception in a heartbeat, a sole shift to
believe in our own thoughts. This is why we cannot find our treasures. But they
lie not in the abstract world that is full of dreams, yet in the very real void
we cannot fill completely. To follow an abstract so completely, yet to remain
grounded in reality; this is our saviour, and yet will be our eternal dilemma.
My friend Joseph didnt seem to mind sitting around saying
nothing. Hed just sit on my couch, doing a crossword or sending messages to
girls he was trying to scam in on. He always seemed to have one that was of
interest...and in spite of him saying very little while he was with me, he
seemed to have an amazing grasp of vocal interaction on the occasions i had
seen him chase a female around. Maybe that was the trick, save the few
meaningful words you had for something important, instead of wasting them on
trivial social matters.
Despite the lack of communication, we seemed to get on
rather well, given that i couldnt talk, and he wouldnt talk. Most things were
done in a poetic manner, lunch was decided by a flick of a finger, bar visits
usually prescribed by a flick of the head to the door and any acknowledgment of
a good looking female was left to a raising of the eyebrows followed by a smile
by the receiving party. I was beginning to think that our covert communication was
developing an almost criminal element to it, given how discrete and unassuming
it was. Little did we know.
A day late in May, Joseph and i were sitting in our
favourite little bar, when a couple of men walked in, rather unassuming
looking, though in hindsight it would seem the worst people usually are. They have
made an art of looking nonchalant about their indiscretions. Joseph was a good
friend to have in this town because he was the main marketing man for the local
newspaper. Everyone knew him by name, everyone liked him and everyone trusted
him. He knew a lot of things before they became public knowledge, if they ever
did, and as such i was also always privy to them. Hed send me mail with all
manner of ridiculous happenings in the nearby counties.
As closed knit was our bubble in the world, i always felt
that i had a connection to hidden things that linked our bubble with others.
When my hands became dirty, i could wash them in the knowledge that other
people had experienced similar things. These little treasured thoughts made me
feel as if i was part of something bigger. I never communicated my desire to search
for something outside of the bubble i lived in, and never heard my friend
Joseph say anything similar. These men walked in a manner which said they were
different, they were hunters. Not in the strict sense of the word, more in the
sense that they were searching for something that was always just beyond their
grasp. Like all people driven to achieve something from an early age, they were
never satisfied with their catch. One benchmark begets another. I could see it
in their eyes.
Walking down streets i knew so well, i would often see
people i didn't know, but they all had a familiar look of sadness. It would
only form in little registers: a passive turn of the lip ,a vagrant flick of an
eye, a downcast look. I had seen the same thing in my own face when looking at
myself. Sometimes i would spend hours looking into the mirror, wondering what
kept my sadness so well hidden, but let it escape in moments of lapse. Was i
really just another pained human walking around with no idea what my treasure
was, or if id ever find it.
We all wanted to be something when we were younger, floating
through the easy phase of life with a wisdom beyond our experiences, a wisdom
that we would never be able to express. And as age slowly grips us, and society
expects us to be a reality, we find we cannot love as we really were made to,
with intent. And we lose our desire and our capability to be the abstract we
wanted to be. The abstract isn't even a profession or a position in society.
Its more arcane, its uniquely primitive and sophisticated at once. Its what we
describe as love.
Most people believe they have it. They give their souls in
the name of it. People will sacrifice their own well-being and lives in the
name of it. They will destroy the chance to find their treasure in the name of
it. But they dont have it. How can any man expect to take care of others, if
they cannot take care of themselves.
This love is a mask, these people wear a mask of love. The
face value is the same, and it tastes just as sweet. But like all candy, its
taste disappears as time goes on. The sweetness becomes boring, and boredom
reflects itself with sadness. Even under our umbrella, as we try to love, and
be loved, we are destroying what we wish we had. We give up on our treasure,
and we become another crack in the mirror we look through.
We destroy our masterpiece with a single stroke, the stroke
we laid first.
