The well gave colour to the land.
The well was from where the sky, the land and the rivers
were found.
The well was a mother to people.
The origin, of thought and of beauty.
The origin, of thought and of beauty.
The first of the people who started their life next to it
were the ones who unquestioningly accepted the flowing beauty. They realised it
was in their ability to acquire and provide. The colours were given to the less
gifted, who lived a little bit farther, never venturing near – blissfully
unaware and unquestioning too.
But these were the elect because, for them the colours could
be found by just letting a lazy arm dangle into the seemingly shallow depths. They
questioned not, about the depths nor about the effort.
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For a time they developed and evolved into a smooth droning
flutter. But as it is with every force of any considerable substance, the well
developed its own edges.
It could be that people started noticing a sputtering with the well’s functioning, or it could be that the people started
noticing their own limitations in acquiring the fruits presented to them by the
well or it could be the well’s own tantrums.
The well, till now had only given and the people had only
indulged themselves in the taking. Happiness was so easy, euphoria so
accessible. The quest for those fruits were easy and short, so much so that the
fruits themselves started grabbing attention as opposed to the journey and
effort in obtaining them.
Effort was forgotten and effort was taken for granted.
The well quit and the gifted were lost.
Both needing a rain for redemption. And no rain came.
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