It is about
putting on the stocking like ripping off the flesh on the leg. The elastic
material clings onto her leg, like pesterer that refuses to give up his
pursuing, however much obstacles he has encountered along his difficult
journey. Maybe a mosquito is happened to be entrapped in that stocking, and
suddenly, when waking up from his momentary daze, he finds himself landed on
this foreign terrain, which is populated with nothing special but occasional
cracks and sparse bushes. The mosquito has no more the driving urge of
bloodthirstiness left in him. He is no longer young, no, and his wings are wilting
and losing its youthful spark. So he trudges on with much difficulty on this
vast terrain, burning with this sole intent of his final pilgrimage: that to
find a cosy place so he can lie down his wearied body. It is every elder’s
ultimate desire to enter the Big Sleep, and to luxuriate in that sweet
stupefaction, which is growing more and more intense every counting second, as
he smiles a wan smile and sees line between land and sea gradually blur.
The little
dog knows nothing about the aged mosquito as he sleeps soundly on the
mistress’s bed. Maybe he possess within him some parts of the mistress’s
psyche. Even likelier the little dog is the mistress, after one unaccountable
and confusing transposition, but still retaining the features and habits of a
fluffy creature. She enjoys surveying her poky room through the eyes of the
little dog, which are placid and uncontaminated like the lake when the world is
yet populated. She knows nothing beyond the four walls and she wants to see no
other rooms beside hers. Contentment comes easy. The curtains are imbued with
different shades of green which appeal to her, yet at the same time she is
tickled by something so amusing that she unleashes an uncontrollable fit of
laughter. What she discovers is a shadow, presumably an imprint of hers, which leaps
in accordance with the ripples of the curtains. Silhouette. Every living thing
is no more but a silhouette.
The chair stands
like a lonely warden on a distant planet who waits daily and patiently for
someone to take him home. He can still recall, faint though his memory has
become, the day when he was pronounced his first death. Never once in his life
would he dream of becoming the subject of some unnamed painter’s masterpiece.
The painter stopped his heartbeat by rendering him a goblet of blinding yellow against
the background of scarlet forest. From that day on whoever sees the abstruse
painting talks of a heated contest between those two fires, both threatening to
engulf the other, and neither is that easily subjugated by another’s imminent
victory. Being revived years later, when, after countless futile attempts that
attested to his failure of rekindling the painter’s exceptional artistry, the
chair is again back to his familiar earthiness. Often he will comfort himself,
his philosophical mind travels far out of the bounds of this shabby room.
And so an
arch is appearing, sooner followed by a wall, all built by bricks materialising
like drops of rain that leak from the roof. Henceforth the lady decides to sing,
to sing a song with a melody that meanders like white smoke in a dark night. Positioning
the last brick on its niche I can still hear her singing, thrumming like the
drone of a drum, like a nameless creature prisoned in a room cordoned off by
numerous labyrinthine corridors, forgotten by time and people. Distantly but
distinctly I can still hear her sing.
Comments
Post a Comment