Requiem for a memory by apelle True Story contest entry |
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Most times, I enjoy writing even though I know, I will never faithfully expose what is in my mind and soul, it's a shame when I cannot write and show the world just who I am. Even if I made a covenant to look everywhere others saw nothing.
I always had the need of surrounding myself by air, by open spaces and bright light until my eyes squinted. I always liked feeling the radiance tearing up my thoughts with the sharpness of an abandoned love. I close my eyes and I see the tall smiling man I knew from memory. He is welcoming me with an elegant confident smile. It would be deceitful for me not to see him. My eyes greet him with tenderness, yet with a mildly sharp dismissal, same one I use whenever anybody floods my space. I remember him. I often dream about the sun high on the hill. On the right, a white church. Again. My passion for everything white. I can hear old churchwomen chattering about pies and grandchildren. It strikes an olfactory memory. The smell of pumpkin pies, the fragrance of the roses behind the shabby fence that enclosed an abandoned garden near my house. And how could I forget about the feel of splashed cold water, as we were coming in from hiking the surrounding hills. When washing our faces. I got dizzy, like in a vortex, with the scenery around me becoming blurry, my heart beating uncontrollable. Suddenly I have now the forgotten thought that there is still something unbearable, painful to remember. Was a sudden need for detachment? Leaving. Touching other people, other homes, other streets, writing, rinsing my heart in the spring waters. Whoever I left behind, it means little today. Next? I read and reread, captivated by - or stuck in - the text. I always read that way, the same way I always wrote. When my heart will be so bright again that no sun on any side of the river will eclipse it, perhaps I will appease this sepia colored map of my heart.
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apelle
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