WINDOW    AT    THE    EDGE   OF  TIME

And it is the wind. The wind that blows furiously and makes the windows creaking and throbbing in a senseless dialect.

And it is true that I tried. I tried every possible way to write the truth. And it’s also true, that I failed once more.

The ink started pouring. It was pouring uncontrollably  from the slashed veins of my page, into black creeks, forming small pools on the floor,  dark enough to look inside them and see what the future held. But I don’t care. I have always liked memories.

Indeed, I have memories I reminisce at times, evidence that I once existed too. At least the photos can prove that, although now faded like me.

Sitting back staring at them, every single one has its own preserving little story. And then I give up on them.

I throw them around, just like I threw away all the years.

And other times, I am sitting in front of my creations just like a kid, a crazy inventor, and admire the magnificence of the perfect failure.

Just like that, I loose myself inside this crazy celebration of this irrevocable silence.

And  I  get lost from this internal monologue that keeps being reproduced out of control,  inside the guts of this place that grows constantly in a suffocating way all around me.

Until such time,  I walk away from everything and approach the window, which in turn starts telling me its own little story.

In the beginning it starts talking about the city which spreads all around, the big  roads,   the public buildings, the colourful flags that are waving proud in the balconies, its big imposing monuments, and how over there, at the edge of town,  there is  a lake, silent with its stunning azure colour.

It talks about the tinny old boats and the fishermen, the shabby old timber huts at the banks of the lake, the cane that bows in the wind, and the kids running barefoot on the piers.

And then how the plains start rolling down the valley, with the farmers in the fields, the sheep and further away the cows.

In the background the tree stands tall and haughty, with the flowers beneath it.   Along side of it, a little girl with her hollow hands overflowing a sea, where the  milky  moon hanging in the afternoon sky, is  floating out in the open, and while the wind blows over to the shore, it washes it out,  and then takes it all back into the open sea.

And it’s true that I tried.  I tried every possible way to write the truth.  And once more I  failed.

And it’s also true that it’s the wind, that  fiercely  blows and charges with menace onto the glass window that luckily hasn’t shattered yet, and continuously keeps on reflecting faded photos,  from the present of an old  forgotten story…