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| The cell What kind of messages can you send from a deserted and infertile land, from the one where after the shipwreck the wild waves threw you. The one that doesn�t have the scent of the flowers you adored when you were smelling the picture with the islands. And you have to put the cork in the bottle to send the letter to someone. To whom though? Who cares if you are alive or not? Like who cared when you sailed away? And you hesitate for a while, you stop writing. I understand you. What to write? What is unknown for me is the way you feel. Because I think I feel the same as you, in my twenties, and I�m not alone on a desert island but on a town island which slowly, slowly dries around and gets bigger but souls around nowhere, hopes get further away and me lost. You passed so many ports and you don�t care for your end. Me, why so quickly though? Strange the world through my eyes like your island and its not the iron door I am standing behind, neither the dirt or the mosquitoes |
| make me think of all these things, I was always waiting behind a transparent door, waiting for it to open. Now I understand why you look far away to the ocean so often, you didn�t want to be there, you just waited for something, from there. Today we have visitors and I understand why people are becoming hospitable. And they have passed a lot of days, remembering you saying that one day it will come. A few days before, after you finished this letter, you said that it will come, I know... You remembered something... hidden power. These days you stay silent and numb. One day has passed since you shed a tear for the first time after being so sure. And you stay sceptical. A few hours passed since you shattered your last bottle, and you laughed for the first time after so many days in the island. You may have felt where you were and scent spread around you and green foliage. And you saw all those trees and beaches real in front of you like those islands in the picture. You sail in the sky blue ocean. In front of you a brand new city, possible to escape from, at your will, |
| because you are now free. Me, when will I be able to fly without the weight of my heart, the sounds of music and memories? |
| The young bird The young bird was standing on the edge of the balcony. It couldn�t fly, it felt giddy. What a pity for a bird! I used to pick them up for a few hours, when I was a young boy talking to them, poking at them to make them react, whistling to them to make them tweet back. No one ever answered me. How many times we confuse the dream with the reality� My German friend, was right in what he was telling me, there in the Cook Islands� The carpet of happiness (cont.) |