The Exiled in The Land of Bears

The day was cold and grey. The clouds had arrived rapidly in droves across the valley. Winter is here; I sighed between my heavy breaths amongst the chilly winds. The orange 40 arrived at the bus stop. The snow poured as if it had waited for a queue right after I walked in. What was once black tarmac has now turned white all over, like chocolate slush mixed with the dirt and mud along the edges of the road. The office called, but I could not put myself to bother. The chill was enough to kill all my senses on my fingers. I wished not to be bothered.

The bus drove on, passing through the stadium. I looked over to the dim screen display atop of one of the seats, 21 November, those numbers does not mean much as of now. As if life had been a cruel joke upon a sinner like myself, bears. Of all places I could have been, life had exiled me here, to live amongst the bears that once hold a different meaning in my life, your life, our life. It was the first gift I ever bought. I remembered the heat of the tropical sun when I had to cycle through the long crowded road to the airfield to get it, on a different time, on the same date. “Remember me,” I said. “Whenever you are alone, I am there.” But that was for her. But what of me? I wonder if anyone would have waited for me at times. The world has no room for such pity.

I walked off and continued on down through the Garden of Roses to Bear's Grove. I thought to myself that perhaps one day this could be shared. Alas, what hubris I had. For time is a cruel mistress. By the time I had it, I lost another. As if God had thought of a proportional trade with my life, He gives, He takes. Success, what is the meaning of such word? For what is life without a purpose? Such is the mysteries of the human life. The boredom of living, the greatest among all ironies. To me? Love, the path to achieve the most glorious, heroic, or brilliant way of dying.

The snow was thick, and with myself drenched in melted ice, I looked down at the bear confinement by the river, as I drifted myself in the labyrinth of life. The sound of the moving stream echoed like an ambience. Now I am written off, for no books shall write about some plebian with broken dreams. No memories can remember such pitiful creature with the passing of time. A speck of dust blown through the wind. The drift of the river does not look so fearsome anymore, and the cold is not so cumbersome any longer. What am I but a mere exiled in the Land of Bears.

No, not today. Maybe, in time. Perhaps, with time, the cruel mistress shall show me the way, no matter the cost, so long as I pay in full. For is there anything better to seek but love? And thus I am in love, in love in the search for love. Let it may be, that on the last day, when all my work is done, I shall discover the sun, on the last day.