I’ve been told my book selection is odd… I have to agree.
It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.
Help needed.
I need to gather some ideas for a piece I´ll write next week. so if you all are kind enough, I’d like you to help me by answering the question
What is the easiest way to heaven?
A thought that conquered him.
A thought invaded him that afternoon. He told me about it. He said it was lovely. He used words to describe it that I had never heard before, so what I’ll rephrase -pardon my poor vocabulary- is what any other mortal would have understood from the Godlike phrases he used then…
I day-dreamt white as light that ran free through the twirls of her hair and around the dinning room; painting, as it did, a lovely atmosphere… …I imagined our strength, harvesting delicious ideas from the vast lands our minds are, only to cook, with such rich fruits, even more tempting dishes(*) From where she was sitting, at the other end of the dinning room table, she called my attention by saying that she had prepared the tastiest of them. I believed her; first, because I believe in her; and second, because preparing thoughts that anyone would consider nourishing was usual for her.
Such was the end of the striking thought he had that afternoon. Before he decided to change the topic of our delightful conversation, he did let me know how he had felt fuzziness taking over his self-awareness after letting that thought possess him completely.
(*)My friend believes that words are souls’ nourishment, and that they posses a flavour that when drawn together, in the right proportions, words are able to please one’s palate.
Illuminate.
Sorrow conquers the heart of the living, just as shadows do with the streets of this city during night. Even though street lights are sufficient for some of the late night walkers; in one’s heart, I find it hard to believe, renters would like to live with the lights turned off.
At age 10.
There he was, standing, fingers tangled in strings that created a net. A net which separated her from him; poetry from mundane, beauty from ordinary. There he was, hanged upon his first conscious illusion, hanging around the age of ten. Speechless, mouth opened, just as wide as his eyes were; and breathless even though he was certainly alive. Alive still when his selection of clothing stated otherwise. Alive in spite of what the color of his skin might have implied. Alive because no one has ever witnessed, and will never do, something which sprang so easily inside the glimmer of his deep brown eyes; something selfless that I could have only name after a feeling; love.
There she was, queen of the bouncy-castle, queen of his day, queen of the entire day; she was turning 10 that Saturday. She was feeling free and flattered. The dress she was wearing made her feel free and flattered, plus the way with which everyone was jumping helped her jump even higher, and that was something that pleased her. She was happy, you could conclude that from the indescribable smile lighting up her face, from the way the sunlight seemed to caress every strike of her golden hair and every inch of her skin. He was delighted.
She stopped jumping, though there was no reason for her to do so.-He wondered about her thoughts at that moment; little did he know that soon he would find out.- She noticed his presence, it was only obvious since he was the only kid not acting according to the unspoken agreement on kid’s behaviour whenever finding themselves at a party with a bouncy-castle situation; you were supposed to jump, not stare! and everyone knew that, he knew that, she knew that. But, he could do nothing else, because her beauty hypnotized him in a way that if a command about looking away were to exit his brain, his eyes and the rest of his body would simply not listen. So she noticed, and for a second, a smile was being built around the corner of her lips, but the intensity of his sight turned that unfinished smile around. turning it into mockery: wiggling tongue out, babbling sounds; the whole deal. His heart broke for the first time.
The spell got broken, his legs hadn’t realized. he wanted to run from that spot but he couldn’t, he even wanted to fly but the wings he thought he had earned simply vanished never to return again. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into days. The mockery was a non-stop show, and at that moment, everyone was already staring, pointing, and laughing at him; at our little dreamer. One leg moved, he felt how the other one followed, and just like a train that is set to go, he swore he wouldn’t stop for anything in the world. His steps were precise, light but conclusive. However, his tears were heavy, redundant. and clumsy on their way down his face.
Instinctively, he ran around the backyard were the birthday party was being held; in between tables, legs of guests and a few clowns that failed at making him feel any better. His speed was increasing then; it seemed he could have teared a wall down if only he had stumbled across one. From afar, his mom saw that something had not ended appropriately, therefore she decided to go and, leaving her lunch behind, the coffee on the table, her bag on the floor, and a half-way-through conversation, be his saviour.
Even when the space there, for a kid, would seem to be enormous; for an adult, it was just a backyard; so the only thing his mom did was stand up and wait for her son to show up in front of her; and he did, not minutes later, but just a couple of seconds after. As soon as he felt he was being wrapped around familiar arms he set himself to cry; just like waterfalls let their water fall, without control.
She articulated a few phases:”It’s all okay honey!”, “It won’t happen again sweetheart.”, “I love you” phrases that used to make him feel a lot better whenever he was feeling down, ill or hurt; though that day he was feeling heartbroken, and such phrases could have never mended his broken heart.
Mad(der)
Her laughter was rich, indulgent even; she had a way of speaking that could charm even the darkest of nights. When people talked about her hair, they had to cast names of angels. When people talked about her figure, there was no material soft enough to compare her skin to. She was more than a girl; she was more than a woman. She was the love of my life; the center of my universe.
They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, but she was beauty herself; pearls fought the way to around her neck, silk tore apart itself to cover her body. You see, even fruits fell from trees, willingly, just to be kissed and eaten by her luscious lips. Yes, she was beautifull.
It sounds mad, I know. I was… I am mad about her. they say I was crazy. They say I am crazy still. But I know you’ll understand the reason for my behavior, If only I explain why I did what I did back then.
Memories.
I’ve lost memories of my past, just as you might have, but I also think I’ve lost the most important ones. I don’t recall birthdays. I don’t remember father’s day, which makes me wonder what kind of lousy gifts I must have given my father for memories to have vanished the way they did. I cannot bring back to mind the type of food I did not like, though I’m not sure if I want to, because I want to believe I’ve always loved potatoes and carrots. I don’t remember Christmases, or maybe I do, but they would be only one or two; and I am a 20-year-old boy almost reaching 21. Pathetic, I know.
Out of 21 Valentine’s, I don’t even remember what I did for the most recent one. I know I can always come up with a great setting in my head, and make it so real that it might even confuse myself; but this time, tonight, I would really appreciate a flashback to greater and simpler days. Days when a handmade card was the most precious gift one could give, days when you cheering with Coca-Cola made you feel like an adult, days when missing on your favorite cartoon was the worst thing that could happen, days when clay was the coolest thing ever invented.
Beware, pessimistic thoughts ahead. I could do it again and model with play-doh!, I could pretend I dislike carrots a bit, I could even set up one fake Christmas on April; but it will still be me, a young adult that is never going to get his past back, wasting present with stupid thoughts, thoughts that will lead my future… nowhere.
