Conversations
The wind was blowing at it’s own freedom that night. It was making them high. They kept drowning into each other, trying to reach out to the soul and break free from the shackles of this hardcore dystopian realism, that encompasses us every moment of our lives, even if just for once.
They were listening with their eyes, determined to search the meaning behind every of those wry smiles, those unfinished conversations, those momentary lapses of time (and reason). And slowly the light at the end of the tunnel, which was so dark even an hour ago, seemed like Christmas eve.
It was calm yet delightful.
It was a very simple and healthy instance when, amidst all this chaos, two people chose friendship instead of the past, even if for a split second.
As the darkness increased outside, the night was getting brighter. A river was flowing between the windowpanes. It’s translucent water carried away the unspoken words in and out forming the circle we are all so familiar with. The bodies touched, and the painting was created in the monochrome canvas.
The painting had all the seven colours.
