I was in a trance, complacently transcending the abysmal depths of the past. Oblivious perhaps, of the avid remonstrances of my ego. In such tranquillity and the joy of being alone, all alone, you lose yourself. Yes, I was lost in spasms of delight at exhuming my past. The sky seemed clear, vacant, and profound. Soft tufts of the evening breeze were caressing me, nursing my growing animation. I looked up. The rainbow was there, symbolic of the beauty of perfectly mixed colours. I conjectured the palette that mixed such a variety must be sublime. But then something within me groaned in anguish. It was reality. I remembered: “We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the savage has, because we know how it is made. We have lost as much as we have gained by prying into that matter!” That stark reality resuscitated me.

Again I gazed intently at the emptiness, recollecting incoherent bits here and there. I was brooding deeper now, I could hear the strange echoes of those elusive moments of complete contentment that put you into apoplexies of chagrin, of remorse, on rediscovering them. Isn't it sheer euphemism to attribute joy to your feelings as you remember the past that you have lost? Lost forever. I can see an iridescent shadow, a phantasmal reawakening of those days of blissful innocence, ignorant notoriety and aimless wandering. The raptures of delight at discovering something new, something exotic. The inexhaustible enthusiasm that preceded any adventure. Those meaningless moments of doing nothing, yet busy doing something. Those seemingly cruel rebukes at home. Those merry days of thoughtless, carefree resplen- dence. Are they gone? I could not reconcile myself to the present.

But wait! Are the shadows drifting away? Do I see better? The chronology still needs to be fixed. Perhaps it has drifted away, forever. Now I am overcrowded, and confused. I can hardly discriminate between the wanted and the unwanted, the significant and the not significant. The echoes of the past are adamant to concede non-recognition. The question then is where to start. I just can't say: “I am born today, Sunday, the fourth of December. It is freezing. No one seems to notice that I am shivering stark naked. They are ignoring me. I am unhappy.” In that case, you will not hesitate to prescribe the lunatic asylum for me. Neither can I harp on any literary guile to keep you engrossed in my idiosyncrasies. The only other alternative is to present you a description of the days after which I gained understanding. Well, I just don't know when that happened. Besides, I do not have the slightest design of misusing your credulity. Goldsmith rightly said, “Memory, thou fond deceiver, still importunate and vain; to former joys recurring ever and turning all the past to pain.”

I see things happening, the days of my early childhood present a vivid panorama. But to no avail. The landscape is picturesque, bright and alluring but just beyond your reach. You are tempted but cannot weave it into a definite pattern. The threads are all torn apart. Just imagine the disgust, the repulsion you feel. That is exactly where I stand. These carefully nurtured fancies of my past these ethereal relics remain in carefree abundance; far, far beyond my reach.

I still gazed intently, oblivious to everything. I still relished the luxury of reminiscence. I gradually withdrew my gaze and awoke from the trance. I was still nonchalant as my gaze hesitantly scurried along. It was now transfixed on a shrivelled old tree, gnarled and distorted. It held its head despite the infirmity, mocking the young world around. Yes, it was more than a coincidence. It reminded me of the famous lines: “‘Spring, love, happiness’; the old oak seemed to say; ‘Are you not weary of that stupid, meaningless, constantly repeated fraud?’" Am I weary of it too? Why? Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun; to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done?