The First is Last and the Last First

O God

There is a man running through the marketplace. His silhouette cartoonish in its slouch even as he runs. Time seems to operate differently for him; moving sluggishly and yet he evades his pursuers.

My wearied legs battle under the weight of my heart. I have been abandoned and betrayed. My one attempt at respite has ended in torment. Woe is me.

The watchmen are gaining on him. Their faces pinched and pulled in effort. Heavy with weaponry and hate. Taking on the ghostly glow of the moonlight.

My spirit grows tired of me. I have felt it leaving me for eons which stretch over minutes, months.

He picks up the pace or seems to anyway, in his own way. He dodges into a narrow alleyway, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

My love has left me. She has not even deigned me worthy of companionship in the first.

The watchmen­­­­­­­­­­­­— bloodthirsty hounds nipping at his heels. Hesitating at the slim opening of the alley, only wasting precious few moments in their pursuit. As the gap closes between them and him, he must decide at a fork in the road the alley has opened up into. Taking the right, the chase continues, leaving a trail of destruction in its stead. Chaos everywhere; the righteous anger of shop keepers whose produce has been scattered in the streets (left to the elements and the sewer rats who creep away satisfied with a quarter of a loaf of bread), the mutterings of mothers who, under their breaths, curse the disorder of the market, the screeching of their newly-woken children, the men who openly take sides, who freely praise the watchmen for their diligence and the ladies of the night who, from jutting-out balconies wave handkerchiefs and offer rest in their house of ill repute, all married together in this cacophony of life. 

My melancholy mourning of a love never to be found has led me to destruction. I have sought her in the dust beneath my feet, in the dregs of leaves washed up on the sides of my teacups, in the words I wake up to and the prayers that inspire my heart. Methinks life…

A wall. The proverbial chasee’s nightmare. The man seems to be panting so hard, his heart may as well leap from his mouth and be found still pounding just as hard years later on this self-same cobbled street. He takes desperate gulps of air as he steels himself into facing his Goliath. Hands already scraped and scratched from rounding corners and pushing carts aside, fingers already nervously gnawed to the bone, he places his left into a crevice deep in the stone of the wall. One can almost feel the naked, exposed flesh making contact with rough stone. Hoisting himself up, his ruined foot catches hold of another imperfection in the structure. Continuing in this manner, he manages to move further away from the grasp of death. Incredibly, his body does not give up on him. The resolve of his spirit evident in this soundless struggle for survival. He reaches the top on the wall, teetering on the edge of impossibility. The void stares back at him as he steals a glance over the edge.

Methinks life is worth risking when she is not by my side. The most precious thing I would ever be convinced to protect my life for is my love. But alas, she is not to be found and the watchmen have made me their folly. They have tormented me wrongfully. Spotted me and chased me down for reasons yet unknown to me. Perhaps also to them. I have done nothing untoward. I do not deserve to be punished. They are Death come for my soul. But their torment is as dust in the face of the storm I must weather for my love. I do not wish to return to sleepless nights and wandering days and melting hours. I do not wish to live without my love. I do not wish… and I do not fear the void.

He jumps. 

He lands. Impossibly, he stands. But before he does, he looks up, directly into the eyes of his Beloved. She was crouching, eyes focused downwards, lantern held close, scrutinising the grass and desperately pushing aside each blade of it. Her purpose was a singular one; she was searching. Hopelessly, helplessly. Like one mad. Her hair unravelling, gown muddied and torn and eyes wide like searchlights, diligently drinking in the scenery, fearing lest she glance over a vital clue and losing it forever.

Impossible… she is here. I have found the one whom my heart sings out for. I have found my soul’s yearning. I have finally beholden the face of the Heavens. She has found me.

Like a man dizzy with longing and relief, he raises himself shakily, turns his face to the dazzling night sky and exhales a blessing,

“O God! Give Thou glory to the watchmen, and riches and long life. For the watchmen were

Gabriel, guiding this poor one; or they were Isráfíl, bringing life to this wretched one!”

In this heavenly garden, were the lover and his beloved finally reunited and found. That night the golden flowers of paradise bloomed, the larks of the East shattered their 10-year silence with their soul-wrenching song and stars bore witness to the birth of love. That night, the world was made anew. The atoms from which all things are composed split open, scattering particles of life, memory and the universe out into the blackness of creation and then were pulled back together into a heart. Two hearts, one. Two palms, touching. Two bodies intertwined in an embrace which rebelled against all reason.

All melt away until what is left is the knowledge of love and the watchmen; seeing the end at the beginning. The victories in the crises, the refuge in the chase and the love in the hate. What was last is now first and what first, now last.