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.
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