As my birthday party approached, I, on another endeavour to re-write history, and following the long-drawn plans for this year, took my departure.
Another night, another train to Victoria Land.
It was the dawn of yesterday, slowly crawling in as I ran in despair, being the last passenger to board, it seemed.
Another welcome greeting, accompanied by the insisting sensation of having just reached home. Nevermind that in there I would actually emulate proper life for the following few days or so.
With a bit of overloaded schedule, my schemes were scratched and, for whateve reason and whichever means, mid-time shenanigans struggled in, something I knew very well back then that I would eventually regret.
As I tried hard to conciliate all the plans, having to meet all the appointments and the familiar demands, I joyfully took my strolls around the skyscrapers, feeling the uncannily warm – but always so present – embrace given by town around me.
Eyes after eyes, mile after mile, I kept my own fight for freedom.
And then I aged.
Happy birthday, I heard and read.
Receiving the most unexpected, exquisite and, well, weirdest well wishes, I recreated myself into an older individual, a matured fighter.
And found it. The blueprint of my innermost desires, painted on such a beautiful work of art, discretely exposed at the Le Velvet gallery, St. Mercy Street, no number.
That was when I took the day off.
A stop by the Brooklyn Bridge, to have a cup of coffee so as to revamp my energies.
I was blind.
As in Saramago's "Blindness", a milky white was all there was to see.
The unexpected – but long desired – happened.
It was dark for all accounts. I was still only seeing white.
Oh, the overrated art galleries. They only expose a partial view of reality, made up by the most insane so-called artist.
Thou art insane! Thou recreatest the artist's reality by thy shallow untrained eyes!
My eyes would not follow, though. Their vision was blurry and misty. Indistinctive shades of colours before them, as its commanding mind was, still, drowned in the milky whiteness it had been condemned to.
I took the humanoid art piece's hand and wondered – how long will I have to live on emulated layers of faux reality for?
My heart felt close to the impending revelation.
As I let go of that hand, I knew.
You will be missed.
Happy birthday, I heard.
'Twas thy present.
Few minutes of candies and flowers.
Few minutes of reality.
For nothing else thou deservest.
Days flew by.
Another dawning, another trip southways.
The so expected day took place, when I could finally take possession of the destiny's pen and draw another day.
I moved my spectacles and took another breath. The clock on the wall was ticking furiously, but hardly represented any harm, while I was trying and analyse, meticulously, every piece that was presented me.
Leaving the place, I felt hopeful, but still a bit sorry and uncertain.
This would make such a perfect birthday present!
As good received as I felt, there is still something to hope for.
History is flowing. I reach for it.
And have even more hope.
Yet again, shall we hope