Lightless Year (N+1)
A few days after I told her the kiss/scar story in the river bank, she visited my summer house in the woods and stayed for a few days. Did I say it’s almost summer time? If I did not say or I said a different season, let us assume now it’s actually the summer time. We sat in the balcony and watched the insects, birds, squirrels moving, singing, flying, making an interesting scene. We talked about pan-size leaves of a strange plant, tropical and energetic. how beautiful it is, how beautiful she is. She occasionally touched her knee and made slight complaint about the pain. “My doctor told me I would be handicapped in ten years.” She told me in peace, yet an incipient annoyance arising from her eyebrows. “Do not worry, the pain will never grow, just like the trees will never reach the sky.” I tried to comfort her. She then smiled. “Kiss me!” she summoned in an almost inaudible whisper. My head flung over effortlessly and my lips closed hers, touching, sucking her moon-shaped lips. Our tongues were then in an invisible Latin dance, absorbing each other’s heat and moisture. Summer was being sweetly consumed, second by second. Time freezes and proceeds, in a harmony with our hearts’ trembling.
If life is a movie production, I would cut the most part out of the final version. But I have no choice. One afternoon, I was alone browsing through the shelves of a used book store in the city and she stayed at my place, playing sporadic notes and mysterious chords by herself. Then she called me, crying and incapable of making a coherent sentence. “I cannot love, … because I am constantly in love. Hold me, do not let me fly away…. I am crazy.” “I know you are crazy, that’s ok. I am fond of your craziness” I was speaking the truth, though with the intent to console her. I was holding the book written by Tom Cooley, a name strange to me, and the first sentence on the page that I flipped open was about snow and mountain and night. I remember the precious light sifting into the attic floor in that book store cascading shadows in unfathomable intricacy. When one is sad; others often have no trickery for a mood-turning farce. Silence is a more appropriate therapy. When one is crying, I do not like to offer tissues for cleaning tears; I prefer to see feelings ultimate raining without an artificial dam. I am not cruel, I am the most gentle creature in appreciating one’s tender emotions.
I promptly went back home, finding her sitting on the floor, still crying. Her hair, golden cotton sugar, waterfall, was covering her eyes, which flashed behind in a pure spiritual wave. I hugged her. her body was shivering, a dying engine in a desert.
If life is a movie production, I would cut the most part out of the final version. But I have no choice. One afternoon, I was alone browsing through the shelves of a used book store in the city and she stayed at my place, playing sporadic notes and mysterious chords by herself. Then she called me, crying and incapable of making a coherent sentence. “I cannot love, … because I am constantly in love. Hold me, do not let me fly away…. I am crazy.” “I know you are crazy, that’s ok. I am fond of your craziness” I was speaking the truth, though with the intent to console her. I was holding the book written by Tom Cooley, a name strange to me, and the first sentence on the page that I flipped open was about snow and mountain and night. I remember the precious light sifting into the attic floor in that book store cascading shadows in unfathomable intricacy. When one is sad; others often have no trickery for a mood-turning farce. Silence is a more appropriate therapy. When one is crying, I do not like to offer tissues for cleaning tears; I prefer to see feelings ultimate raining without an artificial dam. I am not cruel, I am the most gentle creature in appreciating one’s tender emotions.
I promptly went back home, finding her sitting on the floor, still crying. Her hair, golden cotton sugar, waterfall, was covering her eyes, which flashed behind in a pure spiritual wave. I hugged her. her body was shivering, a dying engine in a desert.
