odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
A spoon fully submerged in fluid radiates a rich crimson. Someone raises it to the light and the metallic glows golden, a spring green, iridescent for only a few seconds before disappearing into an open mouth. He thinks of this fragile pool of liquid as the miniature of all the oceans he never saw. He swallows purposefully, his limp body now an oasis.
He does not mean the physical bodies of water, what with all its impurities: a faint smell of brine, the game of entropy light likes to play, not daring to touch the same place twice. Rather, he looks for the sea that comes to him at sleep, an ancient, lethargic thing. On its back rests a once glorious civilization that has now decayed, slowly swallowed itself. A long time ago, someone once spoke eagerly to him about these waters, tempting him with its compassion to engulf everything a person could possibly feel. But in the end, this thing we call sea remains in the realm of myths, and he continues trudging through miles of sand, specks of which obscure his vision. On this boat, my world is tied to sea, humanly, invariably so: haddock with their glistening skins mitigating tonight’s need for olive oil, lingering horizons as foil for a stupid sentimental post, seagull songs that remind me of off-key melodies sung in the shower, reminiscent of ports I’ve never been. But this is unnatural interpretation.
Take two. A world where red shells line rooftops for miles. They function as a canopy for this quaint little town, devoid of history and more mundane than anywhere else. Caricatures of living things just like us are stationed at the doors of each house, inflated with exaggerated expressions of happiness: still-life on a tourist brochure. I snap a picture for the sweaty fat lady next to us. Posing next to the caricature, the two figures could be sisters. The lady thanks me, and I notice that she draws in her smile lines, remnants of which are now oozing down her flushed cheeks. A stranger world still. I drink peppermint tea for the first time in months and the wisps rising from the cup swirl in a way clouds never would. I mimic their dance routine with my index finger, pretending that the birds above are performing elaborate tricks at my instruction. But they dive headlong into the waters below instead, and I wonder if it is just a mere coincidence, that sky has the same hue as sea. Cobblestone roads that make my feet ache: rocks from different oceans, different stories. When they were once conch shells, people from all over the world used to bring them close to their lips, whispering secrets. Now, these voices are carried away by the wind, escaping through the crevices of glass. Someone stifles them by closing the window. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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