Flight of Fancy

What should writers do when their creative fibers reel under an unyielding dry spell? “All you need is to let your imagination fly,” some might say. Hackneyed advice, but still considered a panacea, an elixir.

You have to fly with your imagination, but imagination has its own invisible wings. You don’t need Daedalus’ artificial wings, like Icarus, to escape. Not even an umbrella as used by our own Jung Bahadur while jumping off of Dharahara.

Wings of imagination expand with every leap you take. They encompass, within their folds, things that were worth exploring and writing about but went ignored, simply because, to quote Wordsworth: the world was too much with us. The bird’s-eye-view that the flight of imagination affords us is impersonal, which means we see things in a whole new light.

Nevertheless, I decided to go to the top of my house, all set to take flight. In case you think I was about to take the leap and fall to my death, or in short, commit suicide, let me assure you, I am not that desperate, not yet at least. Everything came to me in a new light. It works, I thought. But soon I realized that the new light was cast by the bright, new full Moon, shining forth through a clear sky.  

I disagree outright with romantic writers and poets who compare the Moon to unsurpassable beauty. They must have observed it through a veil of haze not to notice the freckles and wrinkles on its face so plainly visible in clear weather. As I gazed at the Moon, the best I could bring myself to compare it with was a majestic golden ball whose grandeur was heightened by its transparent luminescence.

I glanced away from the gentle gleam surrounding the Moon. The clear sky was gradually being dappled with roving clouds. The weather was rather breezy and I anticipated more clouds. The Moon, until now, dominated the whole sky, but vagrant Clouds threatened to cast gloom over its crowning glory. It sometimes amazes me that things as insignificant, fleeting and amorphous as Clouds have the ability to blot out even the firm and mighty Sun. But the Moon seemed undaunted. Its glow and brightness increased with the contrast brought on by the dark Clouds gathering around. But even the horde of Clouds stopped short at a distance as if to watch the magnificent glow of the moon in silent awe.

I was enraptured by this celestial theatre, where the Moon reigned supreme, anticipating some divine interplay. I was rewarded. The Clouds and Breeze began to work out a scene as if to amuse the Moon. The Breeze began to chisel away the mass of Clouds giving it a shape. I observed, now holding breath, now taking a deep sigh, until the entire form appeared in a soft but strikingly clear outline.

There was a starkly naked lady with the most slender hourglass figure. She looked as if the Princess of the Sky and the sky itself looked like her Grand Palace. While the whole universe stood gazing at her in reverence, the Moon, I am sorry to say, looked vexed and jealous, for she was now reduced to a mere lamp decorating the bedroom of the Grand Palace of the sky, in which the Princess slept.

The Moon still inspired great outward wonderment. But the Princess aroused extreme pleasure deep within. The Moon made you feel small, staring down at you in heavenly smugness. The Princess charged you with passionate euphoria enough to take mortals to the Pinnacle of Joy.

Her back was turned against me as she lay there facing the Moon, whose face cringed with increasing jealousy, the wrinkles and freckles on her face becoming more and more apparent. I, however, envied the Moon. It could see the most breathtaking and beautiful sight of which I was dying to get just one glance. For if the Princess’ well shaped body, just seen from the back could take you to the Pinnacle of Joy, her youthful face and plump, full breasts, I assumed, could bathe you in the very Fountain of Pleasure.

Alas, the clouds were there to entertain the Moon, besides they have no notion of how we mortals feel. The Clouds and Breeze went to work again, as if commandeered by the Moon. The soft line dividing the chasm of the Princess’ voluptuous buttocks and slender legs began to morph, and her feet too joined together and expanded a bit. The Princess was turning into a Mermaid.

The innocent countenance of the Mermaid was just as soothing and pleasing as could be, but it didn’t excite the rapturous passion of the Princess. I gazed at the Mermaid with renewed hope when she began to stir with the slow movement of a drifting cloud. I would finally see the fabulous breasts and beautiful face of the Princess, I thought. As I lay in wait, overwhelmed with joy, it dawned on me why Dr Faustus was willing to accept an eternity in hell in exchange for 25 years of mortal pleasures.

In my ecstatic fervor, I had totally ignored the malicious Moon. Thus its fury knew no bounds. The Cloud and Breeze, as if under the threat of being dispelled out of existence, plied briskly to give shape to the Moon’s wicked scheme. In a matter of seconds, all my hopes were annihilated; the figure of the innocent Mermaid and what remained of the beautiful Princess began to bloat, metamorphosing into a huge mound that resembled a large and ugly whale.

I stood aghast, soaked in despair. With a sore heart that seemed to bleed profusely, I prayed for this mayhem to come to an end. And so it did. In one single spell of bursting winds, the whole sky was cleared and brought back to its original state of enduring calm. The Moon again seemed like a majestic Golden Ball.

When I landed from this Flight of Imagination, I saw everything in a new light. And since it worked so well for me, I urge all you worn-out writers to try and take the leap.

A safe and happy landing!