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