Haze

The fragrance of a dark coffee. And the rain that is weeping down the large window, somewhere up, above the city. The warmness of the coffee cup buried in one palm, the coldness of the window’s glass painted all over the other. Her breath hazed the window. She smiled and wrote few words with her finger. Then stepped back amazed to see the same words being written backwards by the hand she remembered so well, on the other side of the glass.

blowing snow

 

I want to capture your vivid dreams and project them on the blowing stormy snow. To see them falling down from above, colorful, cinematic. As clear as I can see your face line, and your closed eyes, and the curves of your eyebrows. And silky texture of lips, and tantalizing contour of neck. And roundness of shoulders. All merged in 3D holographic fused puzzle, bubbling down and up, resembling a displaced Picasso-like painting that fell in love with the Rubik cube. A blowing snow bringing out tiny bits of you. Snowflakes imprinted with your metadata lying sensually on the frozen ground, reconstructing a different you in an evanescent piece of concentrated water and light. So, as I was listening to the swirls of wind and the music coming along with night and dreams, I saw it. And I closed my eyes to see it better. Your fingers, my fingers. Your ribs, my ribs, your neck, my lips. 

wormhole bloom

It was snowing that afternoon. Big, fluffy snowflakes in a free falling towards the ground. A silent pillow fight of bluish clouds. There, inside, the words are floating around deaf and aloud. Indifferent. Odd. Cold.

It fitted a place that looked like a haunted bughouse, with bleak days and white lies, tight waistcoats of useless dry words. Shapeless, meaningless, lost spoken words. No one listens. It’s just a dreary mimic of listening. As long as you never listen, you’ll never hear the sound of a door being closed.

Over this senseless world, it is still snowing. In my lifeless cubicle, instead of the monochrome indifference a colorful field of tulips will unfold all over. If I would take off my shoes I may walk through this a golden carpet of tulips caressing palms and feet with their soft stems and petals. To stand in a startling explosion of colors and imperceptible floral scents, that seals in sounds reset and re-programmed to bear sense and emotions. A flying carpet of tulips powdered in soft glittering late snow. Like a wormhole, that opens up a world away, somewhere else, on a paved street flowing down to the ocean, among red bricked silhouettes. Wrap up your shoulders with the smell of salty winter. Embrace the cold sun. The wind is gently combing your hair in a harbor at the other end of the world. No one remembers your name. And no one sees the fragile transparent being that keeps dreaming, hidden deep inside.


Photo source: http://annaschuleit.com/bloom.html