He picks a handful of mud from the ground and covers his face and clothes. Not wanting to be recognized he dips himself into the dirt like a candy dips into sour cream. He had also picked a hobby of pulling eye lashes and blowing them into the wind; along the air waves, carrying a wish that he had once whispered, hoping no one else would hear it. He was shy like that. He didn't want them to think that he wanted anything. He wanted them to believe that he was content. Satisfaction comes hard.

Confident and certain, he doesn't know what to do. He's no longer making sense and everything being said sounds gibberish. He forgot how to think. He forgot how to taste things. Colors no longer carry a valid excuse for significance and originality, the reason why he likes things in black and white. Animals are lucky.
Black and white don't lie.

He chases his shadow into another dream, into a room, empty as a desert; where his voice can echo back to him in silence. He liked echoes. They come back telling him that no one out there hears his cries. At least upon hearing their return he can shut up.

He writes down his prayers on a piece of paper, folds it into the shape of a bird, a bird that can fly, a bird that can go to places that he couldn't touch, and throws it out the window. He didn't sign his name though. Names don't matter where the bird's heading.

He knows now that he'll be fine.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Saturday, November 25, 2006 at 11/25/2006 08:40:00 PM | Permalink