Waiting

The story gets stuck as the prosaic source to begin with is as blurry as the trace of a crude dream slipped out when the rough senses returned--a serious quest is needed to be out there. So I am lost like a fluffy mist at the moment. But groping and fumbling through the ominous patches that lead there, the root of my rights as an individual, I find almost the major verbal archives have passed uncharted through the upheavals of the times and struggles for basic means of survival. But the story as my birthmark or legacy that only I can construct so far sounds familiar in the Tibetan novel (བཀྲས་ཟུར་ཚང་གི་གསང་བའི་གཏམ་རྒྱུད།) that my friend Yeshi has read. I remember his being engrossed in it like reading all the nights long.

“This is a wonderful work that I couldn’t leave until to the end. A great novel,” he said with an air of pride and elation for having finished reading it but concealed by the languid looks in his eyes and the deliberate stretch of his thin lips to make way for a pensive smile.

But, unfortunately, I couldn’t take the book from him and follow suit right away that can be the gumption at least to prepare the basic outline now.

In search of the lost trace like on the footsteps of a ghostly past I think it costs extra device like a dream within dream to get back the minimum firsthand information. Even if it isn’t that long past, the upheavals were so devouring letting souls concentrate on the basic means of survival by being displaced and exiled or madden by the infernal mechanisms of revolutionary education or re-education on such large scale. The remaining traces other than the souls can be eviscerated overnight like what is going on in Lhasa city. But thanks for this device of grounded fiction and the power of human souls far beyond the infantile concepts of how such things as Re-education, indoctrination still persist on risibly after desperately or shrewdly surrendering to economic freedom so far.

I feel like it’s to wait on yet to be better prepared.