@Outwood, West Yorkshire, England.
There is no better destination to write a half-century post on; located in the centre of my life in England was this wonderful place where I spent most of my time in England; where I wandered around enjoying each and every moment, or most of them, at a temperature which was far below my record low and yet high compared to the standards of the area and freezing enough but still enjoying every part of it; thinking about the snow which never came; happy to know about a wonderful place which I never heard about before that day; there was beauty all around; there was the beautiful life; even when sitting idle and eating so many donuts and chocolate muffins along with drinking tea as usual and eating ice cream as if it was something which came down directly from the heavens as snow; watching strange television programmes which made the telecast back at home even stranger on my return home; being at the right place at the right time when there was need for change; all these explain what was Wakefield for me. What is more important than being at a place where your brain and heart works the best? There could be more answers as long as more scientific theories are being invented, but as long as I am concerned, there is only one answer which is not prone to changes and I know it.
My adventure would officialy start at the Outwood railway station; not because I want to place my head on the rail and sing songs on death and damnation; not because I could run along with the train or had that kind of a belief that I was going to be Flash or Johnny Quick and could reach the end of the railroad and make fun of the train; the train might have had its poetry in motion and could have been the subject of a paradox which would have worked so well for a future poem; the ultimate negation of one or more putatively meaningful aspects of life never happened as the yellow, red and blue coloured train was so beautiful and so were the cars parked outside the railway station; for I had to survive to pose in front of the train as well as the railroads and the railway station with those trees on the background which gave the perfect feeling of being at the right station which never happened before; it was still cold and walking all the way to the railway station and back was my feeling of walking in a refrigerator even as there wouldn’t be space for that walk inside that machine; the time at the railway station was fun even with nothing specific there; that would have been a strange feeling for people who see that every day, but not for me who just arrived.
Outwood had a library and it was great to have it so close; for those books which I had with me were ‘The Canterbury Tales’ and ‘King Lear’; even as doubt remain about the latter if it was ‘Indulekha’ or some random poem collection for none of them really got into my head when I was there; so much was there to look for and so many things to find and understand; during that time, there was no time for any reading even if there was time for the library visits; the books were good and so were the DVDs and it was great to see them both for rent and sale even as the latter had only a few in the list; it is still better to be at a place where there is value for books and its readers; where so many books of Anthony Trollope were for sale; where there is an amazing car parked on the outside and nobody cares as they go into the library; when minding your own business is the thing to do and still not staying away from helping others; what books can do to you is more than just awesome; for the books are the guides even as guidebooks are not the books to read; what literature gives you is the best of everything; for the arts field is the way to go and libraries are study rooms which are created for the people with that hunger which is unparallel to anything or anyone who asks you to eat.
There was that park, as we had that morning walk even as the evening walk too guided us to the very same place; there except for that swing, everything was so complicated for me even when the smallest of kids had no problem with those, even the ones who weighed more than me; considering the fact that I weighed ten kilograms extra at that time, that would have been too heavy and in my case, my laziness prevented me from doing anything which was good enough to move the muscles; there was also the photography though, as the place was so beautiful with those greenery which had slight effects of autumn; the trees in different colours and the rays of the sun coming through those branches and leaves gives a feeling which raised to me to that world of unknown greatness which was just below the garden of Eden; for I wanted to do more than just eat a donut and look out for tea; the view was magical and I took photos and thought about being there more often; there is the Lake District and whatever beauty surrounding it; there is just beauty everywhere and there is no wonder if William Wordsworth wanted to worship nature and someone else wanted to praise it even better; for the feeling is unexplainable and when someone can do that with ease in poetry, there is nothing better.
The Outwood Parish Church of Saint Mary Magdalene, belonging to the Doicese of Wakefield; the first church I visited in England, in the United Kingdom and in the whole of Europe or I would say outside Asia; saluting that church which had the beauty of simplicity in such an extent that it affected my words and nearly destroyed and I failed to explain that feeling; a church that old and that beautiful existed only in my deams until then and at some point, combined with sunlight in a wonderful manner, it surpassed my own dreams which were often exaggerated; and I couldn’t get my eyes off it until I looked around the cemetery which was attached to the church; for I have never seen so good tombstones and crosses; the celtic crosses were the best and all of them contributed to the beauty of the church building from a distance; how much do I wish to be buried at such a beautiful graveyard where people would come and take photos; there is no good in being at a good state when dead as they would say, but I would see no change in life and afterlife except for the pain which eats from the inside and the outside as long as the body exists; I would die and hope to see a celtic cross on my grave which would be carved out of stone and it should have other marks on it which should denote my life; that would be too much to ask for, but what is life without dreaming and believing? Where would world be without faith and hope?
When the life is without objective meaning, purpose, or value, one has the desire to travel long and cross huge water bodies and reach a place which is of such a value for him even as it is nothing for the rest; he is the traveller and the wanderer; a man of adventures with stories to tell from beyond anybody’s imaginations; not to forget the tea that would guide him till the end of his life; for tea was made for him and he was made for tea as it is a process which works both ways; for he is the modern version of Ulysses or Odysseus; which is why it little profited his soul to stay at his home and be surrounded by the barbarianism of science; for he was also made weak by time and fate, but strong in will and good enough to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield; he would still sail beyond the sunset and the sunrise and keep doing so until he die; for it is never too late to seek a newer world even if it is as imaginary as Utopia; his pain has lived with him and has kept eating him from one side, but never did he surrender; the evil world has lived around him in different forms, trying to tempt him and deviate the path which he so proudly followed; he hasn’t given up yet and hopes to move on until the end of days even as he wonders if it will be due to the Global Warming or the Mullaperiyar Dam break a.k.a damnation.
Diving out —>