Words that become poems, boys that become men, long lasting phone-calls, the grey pavement and every step taking us nowhere , to a land neither seen or heard of. Playing games with madness, letting her touch me once in a while, to explore the meaning of pain and to discover the two edged blade of adventure. Hidden in the sand, practicing a ritual of love and rage, nowhere in sight, trembling odors, mirrors, light binding the waves to shore, and shadows sending them back, ever hungry, ever restless.
If I were different, I would be a seagull and I would play with the waves sometimes and sing when the storm comes. Playful and vengeful, like a wave, unmatched, unchallenged, I would circle above the humans, joyful yet dis-charming, like a new born hope, impossible to reach.
All my life, I’ve lived among ruins. Broken side-walks, empty theaters, disenchanted patios. It always seemed like I had arrived just after a storm and while I picked up the empty chairs from the lawn I couldn’t keep from wandering what was there before? Spilled goblets, party cups and wine sprayed across the grass in some sort of joyous gesture. I’ve never wanted to be a reporter of life, or the one that keeps track of my youth, but somehow there it is, right in front of me: no choice. It seemed like people had more fun before, the halls were full of light at night and cosmic designs were not yet in motion. Sometimes time stood still, when laughing at a table, or touching somebody’s hand by accident, it took more than a moment to realize that nothing is eternal and that was enough for me. Some form of convalescence, even if only for a second, it helped me recover and cure my superstitions and neurasthenia. Lying in bed at night I would dream about it over and over again until I couldn’t keep myself from wondering back into the cradled bars, a place for hunted youths, such as myself.
The dark alleys and gangs, held evidence of a long fought battle, between rust, pain and dust. You couldn’t tell the difference from a dignified cemetery and the spray painted walls . Echoing in disgust, fear and plagued absence, the words didn’t really mean much to me: Alcohol and pills, Playing with fire, Romance, Trains for the dead, No hope in sight and name of bands I never heard of before. But it was a familiar sight, I passed those alleys every-day and they were like a childhood home. While at night, they were completely transfigured – no more than a few shadows kept the distance between this world and another one full of mystery - where the boys and girls had blue eyes, and blue spirals in the sky, marching like an army battalion, chanting and enchanting the stars and everything in sight until it faded away.
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu