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
X
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