Some of my favorite chain of words have to do with "dis-" prefixes: disconnection, disassemble, dissolve, disfigure, disunion, dissociation, disintegration and dissolution.  The prefix "dis-" means "apart," "asunder," "away", "utterly" or "having a privative, negative, or reversing force" (dictionary.com).  The words listed above hardly share any positive connotations. Instead of connection, one finds disconnection; where there is union, disunion too persists in a state of equilibrium. My fascination for things that cease to be echoes in Chinua Achebe's " Things Fall Apart," a modern classic which eludes an authoritative interpretation. As much as elements come together in harmony, so do they elapse into dissociation and dissolution. 

     But I haven't yet mentioned the main topic- that of discolor. Its meaning is quite obvious. By discolor, I refer to getting "away" from the original color. The dictionary provides little clue as to the profoundness of the word by not regarding its irreversible nature. Discoloration is a one-way road, from one hue to another, for better or worse, or even both. 

     Now, many things in this world discolor. In the human domain: families, friendships, fraternities and such. The abstract and intangible concepts are not excepted to discoloration.  Political, social, economical, spiritual and other ideals lose their vitality as much as trees and flowers do in nature.

     Time avails all. Time erodes but also revivifies; it renders apart yet assembles things back together. One may rightly argue that human efforts have been rather successful in building dams to secure humanity's greatest assets against the relentless waves of time. Things do not discolor, contrary to what I'm professing now, but rather kept intact in their original state. Is that really so? I too believe humanity has kept the externalities of its heritage alive, so discoloration in the literal sense is inapplicable. However, what has happened is unseen, hence untraceable. The pure "essence" of things left behind, surely they have been discolored over the years?  The original meaning has been dead long ago. The "reality" is lost and all we have are mere constructions of what we believe could be "real": such and such author meant this and that and so on.  

      From another perspective, it is possible to argue that discoloration is not as serious as I make it to be. Look at discolored silver, for instance. It may be closer to gray than the "silver" hue we know, but if we deoxidize it then its original color is bound to be renewed... 

 

Perchance I saw you there,
Giving away your delightful fruits,
To those whom you loved so dearly,
And to those whom had halted their journey,
To taste the firstborn fruits of your maturity.
When they reached out for your gifts,
You drew closer and urged them on,
To take a small bite and stay a little longer,
The more you gave, lighter your branches became,
Until no fruit remained for you to share,
I asked if you were sad to have nothing to give,
He smiled a sad smile and whispered to me,
"Come next year, little boy"

When I was a child, I used to play a lot with wooden blocks. I know they are gone forever, physically, yet I recall them from the darkest hidden corners of my mind. The reason? Now that requires some explanation.

The past couple of days and weeks have yet again proved the fragility of an unblanced friendship where two male and female have different views of each other. The male is not just physically attracted to his counterpart but also feels emotionally involved. Simply put, he desires for something more. The female, on the otherhand, feels less attachment yet shows a great deal of affection and friendliness which, not surprisingly, confuses the male to a very large degree. The plot of the story is obvious from then. The boy confesses his feelings towards the girl, the latter, also confused as hell, admits that she can only offer "friendship." The boy says "ok, I'm fine with that." But the truth is not found in such meaningless words. The truth is far more profound, far more painful that what it seems to a third observer who has no access to the boy's heart. So, how does the wooden blocks come into the story? Simple. The boy realized that everything that he had built up so far had been futile when all the wooden blocks came tumbling down on him. The change was dramatic indeed. One point, a large tower, the fleeting next, nothingness, such plain emptiness. Everyone is indeed a builder at one point or the other in their lives, as I was when my juvenile occupation was building wooden block towers and constructing lego cities from scatch. But the outcome of our work depends much in our natural propensities and attitudes towards life than with sheer materials. Relationships and bonds take considerable time to form and consolidate. Difficulties are not uncommon during such processes. Beginnings are always hard, I've especially found constructing introductions in essays rather problematic. The rest flows fine given that there is general idea in my head.  From this experience of mine, I've learnt a great deal of lessons about building. As I've grown older, I have distanced myself from "childish" objects such as wooden blocks and lego, but then I have also forgotten an important attitude towards life that I knew by intuition. That things take time, that to rush something, anything is bound to have suicidal consequences. A steadfast tower of wooden block can only be constructed through careful planning and, most importantly, patience. One must not lose his head but keep it cool. It's not easy and I may make the same mistake twice but I'll manage somehow. I'll manage.