Latest Blog Post
Day 43, Year 143 ⚭ The Past (i)
Year 135, London.
Farewell had long been said. But swift are the currents setting all one way.
His friend was gone, half a year ago. And humbly, Levi felt Death, standing at the door, looking at him, hanging from pinecones, reading his books. Closing in. Whatever was his fate, there - it hurt. His anguished heart breaking slowly, no time for a pause. Resigned to keep a monologue, at this side of the world. But at least, he felt she listened. A pilgrim, he remained.
That fortunate brawl with his mother, the angst,the decision of running away, speeding across the oceans dark. He didn't say a word. Echoes drifting at the bottom of the void, awaken.
Year 135, New York.
The last skylark hang between two tones of indigo, and the red gleam soaking the sky, quenched in a gloomy speck, the Sunken Meadow.
He had lived at the bookshop for three weeks now.
But late nights were for the sunken meadows, to drown the heavier heart, a burden. A tempest upfront. He ate all the shooting stars, he hid. All he could see that evening, was black. The meadow was a vault.
But a star, so high in the dark lapislázuli survived.
And she flashed, and he fell.
A voice interrupted the pain in his knee, like a piece of bread snaps in two.
The star could talk.
That way of bringing light into his world without forcing it, that was the first glimpse of Niele he had.
She held charcoal smudging her fingertips since the first word she had pronounced: with a flash she put him in the picture, she put him in her canvas, effortlessly.
That first time, she had helped to cast away the sad monster, cutting off its wings deep to the bone. A blanket of black feathers covered Levi, but yet he was found, by her. Yet among the bookmarks that covered them both and the new chapter opened wide, meeting the morning rays with a comforting sound, it was necessary to be lost,
to be found.
Then it poured.
>
Posted 11/21/2024, 12:00 AM