Where is Your Rider?

Being a strong and powerful horse of a breed well known to Man, she always hated to be rode around. Her muscles, her power, her torque, was never meant for a human being, so insignificant and so useless - due to the idea that they can't run - thus the thought of getting a human rider over her back, to kick her by the side often got to her nerves.

She wanted to be free. She wanted to run in the wild like a beast. She wanted animals and creatures to see her in awe, and not see the rider over her back. She wanted to be seen and not be sat on, she wanted to be what she was.

One day, her opportunity came. As the rider, again, as usual, kicked her by the side as she was trying to make a jump over a little boulder, this time she flicked her hind legs hard and wide, lifted her whole back up to the sky and shook violently. The rider, taken aback by her sudden response, lost control and balance, and in a split second was off on the ground. She galloped away with the wind, swiftly without looking back, thrilled by her new found freedom.

Crossing the many miles of grass and fields, the stepping across rivers and streams, she was filled with pride and a sense of dignity. Now, she's the wild horse that Man cannot tame. The proud stallion that people will admire and dream of catching to no avail. She was strong and powerful, the beast that the forest has never seen!

But soon enough, she realized that this new found freedom of hers wasn't really freedom. She wandered around the open fields and meadows. After a while, she got bored with the grass and scenes. It wasn't like she never saw those kind of things before. She saw plenty of it while she was still carrying her rider wherever she went.

Now, she lost her sense of meaning and direction. The evening sun came and set behind the dark mouintains, and she knew not where to rest her head. Still strolling, she slowly missed her rider. The rider will usually give her a nice warm rub every evening, and tie her to something so that she can rest comfortably. No more were there any warm rubs, she didn't even know where to go and rest for the night.

She was what she was, because of what the rider gave her. Losing the rider, and she lost what she is.

The tears of a horse are tears that Man never sees, yet she was crying and sobbing. A horse that was once a symbol of power and might, suddenly reduced to emptiness and direction-less. She wished that she didn't kick her rider off. She wished she wasn't so arrogant and so strong-willed. She was ready to give up anything now, even her own life, to get the rider back on her self.

Still caught in her tears, her eyes caught the dim light at the corner of her horizon. She tilted her head, wondering the source of the light. Soon, a familiar voice called from a distance, getting louder and louder.

She didn't have to wait for the rider to find her. She knew that if she lost this opportunity, she will never get it back again. She got up to her legs, and again, carried by the wind, back to the feet of the rider. The rider ran to the horse, and gave his beloved carrier a warm hug and a nice rub on the back.

"Where have you been?" he asked with so much warmth and love. She so wanted to tell him how much she missed him, how sorry she was for leaving and kicking him off, and her promise of never going away again, but all that could come out from her were the mere grunts of a typical beast.

"You'll never go again would you?" Never.

A rider, brings meaning to the flying of a horse, and the rider is the heartbeat of the horse. The rider makes the horse what it is, and the rider makes the horse a magnificent creature that both Man and creatures will read, see and hear. Where is your rider, and what have you done with him?

"Give Me Back What is Mine" 2

Suddenly images of waiting at a bus stop - God knows why - led me to the thought of what happened shortly after I surrendered the handkerchief back to my dad.


My dad, being the wise and kind one, as he gave me the handkerchief, was clearly aware that I will never be able to fully utilize it. Not able to understand the value of that silk handkerchief, he decided to keep it and give it back to me later when I'm slightly older and 'more mature' to handle it wisely.


A small kid I was, and a small mind I had. The whole idea of having to 'wait for the handkerchief' wasn't something I actually liked. My mother spent many many weeks of having to painfully explain to me why I couldn't have the handkerchief yet, and why I had to wait for it, so that I won't tear the handkerchief, so that I won't simply lose it, so I won't destroy it or use it wrongly and stuff...


.. but the hard part came, when I suddenly saw the old handkerchief I used to have.

And this time, it was in the hands of a kid of my age, that I actually - and seriously - disliked.

My jaw dropped as I saw him pulling out that handkerchief from his pocket. What on earth is that handkerchief doing with him?!? And as he drew it out, he shaked it so hard and flapped it open without giving it much thought of 'what would happen to the poor handkerchief'. Anger started to rise in me, and I could feel the heat all over my face.

After some vigorous shaking and flapping of the handkerchief, he wiped his nose. Blowing hard into the handkerchief, I could see strains of the utterly disgusting mucus coming out from his nose, and he wiped harder than ever.


That was the last straw. Breathing fury and inhaling fumes, I charged right up to him. I was almost running with my fist clenched tightly. For a small kid back then, I sure was mad and angry. My eyes were burning at the sight of him, and I saw him burning and bleeding in my anger as I approached him. He's going to pay for it, he will.


At the nick of time, luckily, my mother stopped me. Holding me back with one hand on my shoulder and the other hand on my head with her back facing the boy, she pushed me all the way back to a little corner and carried me up from there. I wasn't prepared to give up at all. I was so close to socking him for treating my beloved handkerchief in such unruly and inhumane manner, with no sense of responsibility or awareness towards the value of that handkerchief he was holding. Fighting my mom, I was kicking and pushing her hands away to almost no avail. Slowly, as I realized that I could never outdo my mother, the struggle faded slowly.


No more did I fight my mother. That time, the anger and fury made me weary and tired. I was then devastated, a soldier lost in nowhere, a pilgrim without a compass. Sadness overwhelming me, I cried and sobbed softly. In the middle of a grand function, I would be really shy if other people saw me crying, and I was careful not to let anyone see those tears of mine. Sobbing, I finally fell face first into the strong shoulders of my mother, and wrapped my little hands over her neck.


Patting me on the back gently, she carried me out into the garden for a walk. I was still crying, but only the tears were left on my face. My mom's shirt was almost drenched in my tears. She hummed the song "Give Thanks" softly into my ears, and that really did calm me down.


But the sadness, the frustration, the struggle..


My handkerchief, once everything I only had then, now in the hands of an idiot that didn't appreciate it..


Why?


"Why is it with him?" choking on those tears, I finally asked.


"It's dad's to give darling," my mom sad softly. For a little boy, I thought I could sense the sadness in her tone and voice. "But I'm sure dad knows what he's doing ok? He loves you darling, I promise.."


"You know that too don't you?" she continued.


I nodded my head slowly. Back then, I couldn't understand why would he ever allow such an obnoxious kid to hold the once favourite handkerchief of mine, and until now I still don't. All that I could remember now, is that after I nodded my head while rested comfortably on my mother's shoulders, I still cried, in my heart, for a long time. I cried, and cried, and was left to cry. My dad, I thought, would never have seen me cry back then.


But somehow, later as I grew up, even if I never actually knew why he gave him the handkerchief, I had this strong inkling, that he knew exactly when I cried, and why I did. After all, he's the dad.