The Cycle of Life

Those who take to time to explore my writings quickly conclude that I am one of a kind. Though, for the most part, there is nothing unique in the material I put forward, my diagnosis, rationalisation and drawing conclusions are exceptional. My own mother remarked that my book A Brief History of Conscience was like a “string of ancient proverbs” which challenged every modern day convention.  She had heard it all before, but this was as fresh as if it had never been conceived. So how would I, someone like me, view the cycle of life?

We have a veranda at my place. Yes I know I perhaps should have said our place, but I don’t care about them and I do not own it. I am not even the primary lease holder, so we live there but it is my place because as far as I am concerned, they don’t exist. We live under heavy tree cover and this restricts light in the day, but the nights are really dark. The veranda is a pretty good size and fenced to conform to limits of the apartment. We are on the ground floor so perhaps have a greater connection to nature.

At night I often flick on a solitary light. Its marbled plastic casing had been broken long ago; before I moved here. That exposes a clear 40 watt bulb and from the right trajectory, you could just make out the filament. I sort of know how it works, but not precisely. I know they generate electricity at a power station, but I couldn’t precisely say how they manage to tease it onto the vast network of copper wires which eventually connects to the socket of my veranda light. I don’t know if they distribute electrons, photons or some other kind of “on”, but I do know that by a miracle we call modern technology, I can flick the switch and the light lights. Notwithstanding power cuts and other disasters, natural or otherwise, my veranda light has never failed me, broken though it may be.

At night, when it is switched on, my broken veranda light with its filament exposed attracts a chorus of moths. Where did they come from? Did they come to pay homage or was it a passing affection? Would they return? Who knows? They were there; they were always there, heralded by the light and that is all that can be said.

Did I mention we had a cat?

It is not my cat. It was here when I came. The cat also loved the veranda but was not attracted to the light. She did not mind if the light was on or off, but she preferred it on because she was on a secret attack mission. Those tiny dive bombers whirring towards their heavenly destination were her fascination; her prey. She would crouch into a tense ball of fluff and tendons. At the right moment she would morph into an animated flying machine limbs swinging to the precise pulse of the moths; her beloved prey.

In a flash a fat grub like body could be seen protruding from her mouth like a large, grotesque swollen tongue.

Her expression said it all. That wasn’t meant to happen. What was this thing doing there? It feels strange and I am not sure I like this. Only one solution now! A big gulp later and she was back as a crouching ball of fluff ready for a new adventure.

If I think about the cycle of life, I picture that beautiful bijou veranda bathed in its semi-luminance courtesy of a sole broken light surrounded by moths transfixing a fluffy female cat statuette. I had the power over the switch and I appreciated that power in its vision. That is my cycle of life.

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