Thursday, October 11, 2012

How come?

How come the stories written decades ago came to haunt us in real life? They used to be just that - stories, someone's reality interspersed with figments of imagination. They lured and frightened at the same time, shocked and disturbed. But being a mix of the reality and fiction it created a safe distance. There was never any serious danger to be completely immersed in its intricate web, not being able to break free.
It was fascinating and exhilarating to stand on the edge and look down at the abyss all the way knowing you will never fall. 
Simpler days...

When the world came suddenly crashing down one afternoon the mind was to busy processing the damage of an ongoing drama, questioning the survival itself. 
The sequence of days and hours running on parallel lines, braking the framework of what used to be a familiar reality. 

How could have they known what was about to happen years into the future? How was it possible to soak up all the pain to draw the picture that would make you shudder  reminding of the nightmare too fresh to acknowledge completely, process in your mind in order to put it to rest and move on when it was still here to remind of all the atrocities that burned your eyes as soon as you shut them to get some sleep, all the pain that so close to the surface that any careless move could release it through million pores and drown you.
The gates are closed for now but just barely keeping inside its treacherous content. 

How all these seemingly abstract  ideas, places, people, events touch the wounds inside yet too fresh to heal? The power of sight, premonition or long-forgotten past that survives somewhere on the edge of the brain signaling not to forget something that once existed, had a meaning and vanished. 
Opening doors on your way you might inadvertently stumble on something you never imagine in your wildest dreams you'd live through and survive to tell about, too close to home to be ever forgotten...

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Circle

Preparing for winter is like slowing down before the final dive into a long dark tunnel. 
Daytime is receding, northern wind is squeezing away the warmth of sunny hours, it's getting quieter.
Taking the last look at the surroundings, breathing in the fresh air, looking at the sky of incredibly deep blue, memorizing the scenery, quietly flipping the pages of passing days is all you can do.
One last step and unavoidable tunnel is swallowing all colors and sounds, it's getting darker and darker along the way. You are tempted to close your eyes and hold your breath in a desperate attempt to avoid feeling the bleakness of graying surroundings. All the energy is centered on moving in search for the light that must be somewhere ahead, who knows how long from now or even if. Darkness, wind and an illusive hope of another life cycle that is worth trying to overcome another day, week, month...
And when exhausted by the constant blindfolded motion with shades and sounds blurred into one while you are trying to pierce together the disintegrated fabric of time, a tiny flame will slowly materialize on the other side even if as a distant flicker, burning off match you will know you are getting closer.
It's not a dream, not a mirage, it's happening. 
When a dreadful fatigue is seizing  your limbs making it almost impossible to even move, memories nudge you to go on, luring you with promises of sun and warmth and color as vivid as you can only imagine. 
One more step, and another, and few more, just to see it from afar, to know it's there, to be undeniably sure. 
Venturing out for the first time like in a slow motion, blind from all the light and ambushed by all the sounds in the cool and crisp air and taking this first breath after seemingly endless night.
What a pleasure it is to sit on the curb and just breathe...