And when through the open door, looking out into the open, rushed in an unbridled and obstinate wave of air it swayed the calendar with it, taking it along, to where the air was travelling. But the lonely nail held the calendar where it hung, just like the rod that held the curtains where it must stay, and the plug socket the wire of a mobile charger. They were all brought back to where they must stay from the journey of suddenness with the air. The leaves were likewise oscillated, no, not oscillate, oscillation is systematic and has a fixed pattern, the leaves moved with the breeze at random.
The calendar when it left its place for a brief moment of surrender to the air revealed a text on the wall, a blue wall, written in pencil, in a hurried hand, Kashiv’s hand.
And it is the madness of the systematic patterns that intrigues us. In the randomness of stars we find patterns, patterns that we understand and have learned, patterns that hold a meaning, patterns that are taught to us to mean what they mean. Patterns that make us think about the perfection of alignments that the random positioning of the stars have made. Thus, the methodical and organized patterns kill the beauty of the virgin.
Looking at the randomness of the mountains and tress and clouds, savoring, is beautiful, in fact a beauty undefined. Chaste.But to my utter chagrin, the moment I draw systematic patterns in the placement and line up of the trees and the mountains, the virginity is gone. The moment I see things for the way they are not but for the way I have learned, the beauty is diminished. Spoilt. Soiled.
Random is ephemeral but eternal.
Systematic is permanent but transient.
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