(del 12/07/2006 @ 22:15:03, in Stories
, linkato 2837 volte)
The air smells like mist, in which you’re shrounded, which thickens at each step you take. A faint light barely filters in through the fog and the naked branches. Grey. Sad. Lonely.
It’s dusk. Maybe.
An icy breeze fondles your skin, your hair, and brings with itself the noise of leaves, dead, under the advancing of someone. A presence. Perhaps a curious creature that’s watching you from behind a bush. Scared by the unusual visitor.
Something in front of you. A dark shape. Still. A bench. An invitation to seat. There’s nothing else to do in that place without time, without a reason to exist. You do it.
For the first time you’re asking yourself why you are here, but there’s nothing in your mind. It’s like you’ve known it, but you’ve forgotten. Or have you just dreamt of it?
Suddenly another noise, louder, it wakes you up from that odd condition near the border to sleep.
Have you really heard it this time?
Yes, you have.
It’s behind you. You know.
And I seat beside you. Noone of us stops gazing the emptiness.
All at once you turn towards me.
“What are you doing?”
Have you really spoken?
A half smile. My look moves from the tree to my hands, from them to yours and then your eyes.
Neverending instants are passing by. The imperceptible sound of time, which we are unbelievably able to grasp now. And to understand.
“I’m looking for you.”
“You are… but I am not.”
These whispering words are still re-echoing in your ears, when you realize that you are bending your sight to the nothingness.
Photo: © Felice Monticelli, my grandfather; this picture was probably taken in the 60's.
Do you speak English?
Ci sono 24 persone collegate
ATTENZIONE: La navigazione su questo sito implica l'accettazione della
Acquista i miei libri su
Questo sito partecipa al programma di affiliazione di Amazon.
i miei libri
Segui Anna Persson su Twitter