sábado, 15 de novembro de 2014

The ashes in the fireplace, on the road with the thunder

The thundering on the street, the shadows on the pavement, they appear and they leave, just a second and something's there, someone, nothing more now. Perhaps an illusion, perhaps the maddening silence has finally got the best of me. The light, the playfulness of its ways, conquering, piercing - smiting the fear. Now everything gone, only the cold stones to tell my stories. Now two people behind me, hidding in the corner, following me home - only when the thunder comes around. But the light in the sky, the ways of it, its language, its identity - taking me home, keeping me company, ruining all the unknown to explore. All the light, all that shimmering, twisting light, taking me home, letting me down to sleep.

Wrote her a letter. It said:

'All I've ever wanted...'

On the back I found the answer:

'When you left I died.


Took the long road home. By the mountains, always seeing that old stream, older than the earth around my house. My house is pretty old, what does that say of me? It says things, says words. She'd offer me a warm cup of chocolate, a smile, a kiss on the forehead and a pet on my head. Then she'd say that I think too much. I think I think as much as anyone else. Even if slower - even if I always rush to a conclusion. Nevertheless, I followed the old stream. Coming trickling down the mountain - crashing against the rocks, holding on to the trees. Eventually I got to that old house, all bricks and windows. Entered through the rusty, hinging door, saw all the dusty wood furniture. Saw myself before, ages ago, playing on the ground, refusing to eat the meal on my plate, running around, hiding from the hands that tickled - running from the fear of growing up. Sat down on the table, opened the letter, wrote on capital letters:


Licked the stamp and threw it in the garbage. Waited for a reply.

Outside the wind blows, the thunder falls, the rain flows. I drain the energy of the darkness that surrounds my house. I drain it into a pit of melancholy, into that sinking piece of bewildering shit that I blabber about in my sleep - awaken still. I look out the window and I see her. I see her laughing, smiling, fading into the dark, lost to me. All but an amout of ashes remain. I burned the damn letter.

Awake the next morning by the window, raining outside still, the clouds a light shade of grey, drowning me in the slow mist that covers the air of the morning. All around the world seems to move - rabbits run, cars pass by, shades come to disappear once again. All around the world seems to forgive and forget - all but the ashes in my fireplace. If the world is the day, if the ashes are the night, I'm but the dusk that hides between both in fear of getting caught and forcefully confronted with reality.

Sem comentários: