The face of the house was as depressing as the ghosts of people who pretended to be living inside. Even the bushes that were to decorate the gate had withered many years back, the fact that had never been noticed by the inhabitants of the mansion.
They themselves were more like objects placed in various corners of the house and I wondered if they ever truly managed to acknowledge each other's presence. They were like plastic chairs with a rope attached to one of the legs to prevent anybody from taking them away from the long hall that was used as a dining room. But who would take any of them, since their souls were heavy as stones which made them immobile, frozen cold stones that knew how to eat, how to count, how to speak in lofty words, but did not know how to light the fire in the heart of that house. The only sparks of warm touch could be felt when sitting next to an old woman trapped in her own incapacitated body. A prisoner of old age.
There was something sinister about this house and their inhabitants, something that made me cautious and restless. The fear of being tied up with a long piece of rope and tied to one of the tables and never be able to see the sun again.
They did not need the sun. They did not need the sky, and they did not need green trees. Did they know about the words that the trees tell if only you want to listen? Did they know about the touch of the wind? Did they know about all those magic worlds that existed inside the bodies of all living creatures?
Every minute spent here made me realise that I do not belong to this place. And never will. Every moment made me think about that other house that I see every day in my imagination.
A house with hundreds palm trees around. Parrots, squirrels, cats, and butterflies. It is not a big house. It has 3 steps and a threshold from which you can see the stars and the moon while drinking tea in the evening. The windows are open and sometimes you meet an unexpected visitor that greets you with a friendly meow or flies above your head. The smell of the flowers at night. The chirping of the birds in the morning. A mattress in one corner on the floor. A desk by the window. A cat in my lap. Colourful walls. Books and words. Warmth of human touch. And tea.
A decision has been made. I felt the wind on my face... That same wind that spoke to me when I stood on a bare mountain top with only skeletons of animals as my companions. It whispered in my ears the words of generations that lived in the valley. And I gave it the scream of my fears, guilt and desires. The wind that spoke to me at night when I slept in Chabutra and my soul was born again to become a bird. The wind that spoke to me now... The call of the wind that whispers into my ear...
I am coming. Green parrot. I am the child of the wind... I belong to the land of green. I belong to life. And I will live.
They themselves were more like objects placed in various corners of the house and I wondered if they ever truly managed to acknowledge each other's presence. They were like plastic chairs with a rope attached to one of the legs to prevent anybody from taking them away from the long hall that was used as a dining room. But who would take any of them, since their souls were heavy as stones which made them immobile, frozen cold stones that knew how to eat, how to count, how to speak in lofty words, but did not know how to light the fire in the heart of that house. The only sparks of warm touch could be felt when sitting next to an old woman trapped in her own incapacitated body. A prisoner of old age.
There was something sinister about this house and their inhabitants, something that made me cautious and restless. The fear of being tied up with a long piece of rope and tied to one of the tables and never be able to see the sun again.
They did not need the sun. They did not need the sky, and they did not need green trees. Did they know about the words that the trees tell if only you want to listen? Did they know about the touch of the wind? Did they know about all those magic worlds that existed inside the bodies of all living creatures?
Every minute spent here made me realise that I do not belong to this place. And never will. Every moment made me think about that other house that I see every day in my imagination.
A house with hundreds palm trees around. Parrots, squirrels, cats, and butterflies. It is not a big house. It has 3 steps and a threshold from which you can see the stars and the moon while drinking tea in the evening. The windows are open and sometimes you meet an unexpected visitor that greets you with a friendly meow or flies above your head. The smell of the flowers at night. The chirping of the birds in the morning. A mattress in one corner on the floor. A desk by the window. A cat in my lap. Colourful walls. Books and words. Warmth of human touch. And tea.
A decision has been made. I felt the wind on my face... That same wind that spoke to me when I stood on a bare mountain top with only skeletons of animals as my companions. It whispered in my ears the words of generations that lived in the valley. And I gave it the scream of my fears, guilt and desires. The wind that spoke to me at night when I slept in Chabutra and my soul was born again to become a bird. The wind that spoke to me now... The call of the wind that whispers into my ear...
I am coming. Green parrot. I am the child of the wind... I belong to the land of green. I belong to life. And I will live.
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