A pile of memories: the body
Anarchy. That was his first thought. The pen pattered loudly as it touched its destination, releasing the tint which was spilled out on the paper in its irregular dimples. The writer sat in the middle of a family conflict, while animals were running back and forth, tiger, elephant, a shark that swam in the air. Above clouds flew in a hurry despite the lack of wind. The sound of water mixed with the lightning’s voice, the singing, because somebody was singing, felt like a smacking kiss, the uncomfortable one, and neither were the elephant’s legs right. Sometimes a familiar face, laugh and sensation appeared but he just stooped over the table puzzled.
He jotted down a word, then crossed it out. How should it be? He thought. Now he was sitting next to a well-made bonfire and tribal men were cooking meat. The crackling of fire, drums, yurts, tents, the fresh smell of meat and the scents arising after rain made a strange mixture. His old lover rested her head on the chief’s chest. In the distance a fog was creeping and wolves were howling in the unknown. The writer wrote his first sentence.
Now ringing sounds appeared, hung bell rods played a C minor, the thoughts were clearing but the fog was nearing, it covered the chair, the table until the writer couldn’t see the paper anymore. The wolves snarled around him but a fire ring lit up in a circle, which, to an extent, cleared the fog, thus, he could write something about wolves. At this moment the chiming turned into a dissonant, out of tune piano chord, the text became wet and blurred.
In spite of all this he persevered, the words lining up on the paper. He looked at it, crossed it out, rewrote it, took it further, crossed it out again, the pictures changing with incredible speed, soldiers marching behind the table, the chair almost broke under their vibrations, soon the tank’s appearance, but they were all made of either glass or butter, cartoon characters smoking weed leaning on the table or giving around the needle while quacking, and after a while this all happened with precise lights divided into colours, like a prism, he disassembled his thoughts to its elements, then randomly annexed them together.
He shook his head, this is too much, one colour, two at most, he thought and he chose red, purple. The pen pattered again as it touched the paper. The story was outlined around him, from beginning to end and all the scenes were framed images fit into a fabric’s gaps of its material. He could choose. A lot were amongst the paintings, from all eras, and somewhere near the edge was one: depicting a singing, care-free little boy but the childish visage was missing, something completely different, an all-seeing pair of eyes was looking out the picture. He heard the singing. He found it.
At this moment the fog disappeared, the secret opened its gates and behind the gate was nothing. The writer sat in the nothing and just sat. Wrote. He then grabbed the paper and blew it. The tint was brushed aside. It was a mirror.
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