The river

Posted July 10th, 2009 and filed in Life

The river flows. Going forward is its only nature. Good things happen to it, bad things happen to it. The river rejoices, moans, suffers, zigzags in unfriendly lands. The harsh mountains try to block it, the vicious deserts try to devour it, the deep valleys try to detain it, the gentle plains try to slow it. It changes its shape under each circumstance, becomes a torrent, a waterfall, a stream, a lake, or a mighty source of irrigation, but the unknown direction is calling, and it eventually takes its leave.

It accepts everything and everyone that comes its way. If they cannot go with it, it leaves them behind and flows ahead. Friends, enemies, all is temporary. The river keeps flowing. Sometimes it becomes dirty and muddy, sometimes it becomes clear again, but it is forever growing, absorbing, taking whatever is capable of being taken. It is weak. It is powerful. It is frustrated and intimidated. It is fierce and formidable. It is soft and calm. It is crazy and dangerous. Going forward is its only nature. It cannot stay still.

Disillusionments and disappointments are part of its life, but so are discoveries and inventions. It flows, and sometimes looks back, marvels at the static nature of other things, those it used to think it belonged to. But no, the river has never met its match. Everything else stays. The river itself alone goes forward, despite all the remarks that it should stay also and despite its own doubt. Maybe the sea is its dream, maybe the infinity it dreams is even beyond the sea. The vastness, the boundless, the indescribable rich, the river can only be calm when embraced by the inexhaustible wonders of life. Anything more finite means boredom; its heart will not be content.

The river’s mighty heart! Compared to it, everything external is very small. Its fate is too small for its nature, but nonetheless it is forever in searching. The hope lives as long as the life. Always with false hope it grabs a new discovery, only to be burnt and laughed at. The river moans, licks its wounds, winding a little, brooding on its mistake, then leaves the old place and goes forward again. It cannot stop, however much the damage. Its intrinsic nature is purity. Whenever it is left alone, the contamination will deposit and depart, and the clear, innocent nature is restored. It always seems silly in a sophisticated, treacherous world, but it becomes comfortable with itself, and carries its childish heart cheerfully.