W H I T E P A G E S
I can imagine it.
I can imagine me.
There, as I am lying dead, myself with my only desire to come back and erase all my traces. Everything I have created everything I have written, or painted. And even everything I said or meant, while things continue on their long journey, as though they haven’t even been experienced by me.
Now I am here, and writing.
I am writing, because I am dead.
At this beach, with the white sand, and piles of sticks, with scattered driftwood, of all sizes laying on it. Further away the sea is pushing carelessly its little waves. In the background the sun, Dazzled, and looking sick. Sunken into cloudy oceans, where they are waving obscured mountain-lines.
The wind is blowing, and every now and again, a narrow strip of light escapes the sky’s dark face and reaches up to here.
The wind is blowing and the sand is whipping my face, but I have stopped listening.
I am simply writing.
The shore is getting quieter by the minute. The light has now gone, and the darkness is slowly coming down from the mountain.
The trees are waving their tallest fine branches, and bidding farewell to daylight, with the old conscience delaying silently, the second last moment, that refuses to face the end of it.
And I am just sitting here, with my back turned against the sea, and a bunch of odd creatures, that have escaped history’s broken door, that has nothing to describe for itself, parading right in front of my own eyes, until they get lost into the white pages I hold in my hands.
And I hold them
And I keep on holding them.
And they are getting more…. And even more.