Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Irene's winter tale




Within a bleak gray room, she was telling a colorful winter story.
It was Friday afternoon. A cold afternoon, close to the end of the year, we were all caught in an accelerated count down until the end of the day. Maybe the end of the week. Most likely till the end of the world as we sensed  it.
While I was recalling the colors of the story, some other voices jumped out of silence, and made themselves comfortable. The brilliant, fulgent details of ordinary life should overwrite the dark side of almost everything. Therefore, it was a young snowfall embracing an old resigned December. Like a re-writing of hues, within the game of overexposing the significant fine points.

My imperfect memories of story teller's voice have reshaped an alternate narrative; that very moment of her slowly driving a car through the invasion of snow flakes like small dandelion florets, chimed in with my awkward slide down from one layer of possibility. An utterly contingency. I was standing in the middle of the deserted boulevard covered in fresh untouched snow, looking at the Christmas lights hanging all along. In those cones of lights projecting their contours of the street the snow turns out blue and green. Sometimes turning into soft faded tones of red. In our commonly shared slice of universe you are stripped in primary colors. While I am covered in primal fears.
It was a Friday winter night, neatly wrapped in a hot blanket, assorted room coated by the scent of jasmine tea and sweet citrus and a complementary play of minds enclosed in a movie. Some other voices make themselves heard to convey some sort of message for those willing to believe in. I have heard them while I was almost asleep. I assumed it is true. People find their paths in the strangest of ways. Even if they do not know yet.

 

Source: http://static.flickr.com/62/368532221_168c730bf5.jpg

Friday, December 14, 2012

Frozen


She was sitting cross-legged on the floor. From the screen, those words were leaking down.
She could almost feel them flowing towards her legs.
But, you ascribed meaning to something that was not there. You saw what you wanted to see. You believe what you wanted to believe because that’s what your emotions do. They ascribe meaning to something that is not there.
They fool your perception as to what is real
.
I can ascribe whatever meaning I need to keep myself alive. Whatever stories behind ugliness that changes perspective about lights and shadows, whatever signs to boost hope. Whatever remnants of the sense and sensibility long dead. I see what my mind needs to see. Otherwise, I may go blind.
The skin remembers what the mind forgets. My eyes are wide open when closed. And, those words leaking down the screen got frozen.
Other voices were whispering in distress that feelings are getting extinct so like dinosaurs once.
But, I clinch tightly on such obsolete useless details of what I feel because I’m afraid my soul will end up barren and dried. That’s why with each expansion my lungs scribble on the wall of my rib cage There are no limits, except for those that we impose on ourselves. Open your eyes.
Open, open.