Pentru ca anumite persoane au citit un post vechi cu o chestie boring and useless scrisa in urma experientei traumatizante de a merge cu o masina noaptea cand soferu’ nu are carnet :)) si le’a placut, m’am gandit sa postez si a doua parte, scrisa tot cam pe’atunci.
Surprinzator si asta suge la fel de mult, but meh. Trying to make people happy. A fost scrisa cam anu’ trecut pe vremea asta, deci am o scuza.
-again, no title-
-They’re all a bunch of liars, I concluded, though my thoughts had no beginning. For the only true conclusions are the ones about nothing, the ones with an end but without the beginning. More like an instinct, slithering through our minds, creeping on our tongues – the poison of truth.
– Them, I said, pointing at the sky. They call it the silence before the storm. But that’s such a big, fat lie.
I watched the clouds gathering at the sky’s feet. I chuckled, imagining God like a chubby old man, unable to see us because of those clouds. I thus concluded I must have clouds in front of my eyes.
– Well, you can’t hear the silence because you insist on playing this CD over and over again.
– You can’t hear silence. You taste silence. You smell silence.
He didn’t say anything, so I went on rambling.
– But it’s not the lack of silence that bothers me. It’s the soft rustle of the darkened sky. Can you hear it? It rushes around us, choking the wind. And it sounds like… it sounds like smoke.
– Cigarette smoke.
– Aye, I said sheeply, drowning
(…there’s things inside that scream and shout…)
all the smoke inside with happiness and Heineken. Two magic H’ s.
– Hocus-Pocus Holopainen.
Couldn’t remember where I got that from. He just threw me a bewildered look, then took the cold beer can from my hand, apparently unable to drink from his own.
And there lay the wheat fields, bathed in a shadow of gold, glimmering with the inside light that dead plants sometimes gather. It was gray, actually.
(They were grey.)
But it seemed golden because of its dryness, because of the incandescent storm, because of the storm and the beer.
– I hate metaphors, you know.
– I wish I understood what you’re saying.
(…so tear me open, but beware…)
– When I find out what I’m talking about, you’ll be the first to know, I assure you.
It was a wicked, wrong sunset. The sun was falling through those neverending wheat fields. Through each sunflower which threw its brown head down to the dry earth, beheaded by too much heat and luminosity.
And then, the clouds disappeared. There were only shapes, embraced by pink and gray silhouettes, reflecting in my window and meddling with the wilderness outside.
A thunder roared, shaking my thoughts.
(… I’ve been brought back in this storm and left so far out from the shore that I can’t find my way back…)
They hid into round corners, like a flock of lost birds.
– Here it goes, he smiled in his weird way, looking like this was the highlight (or high light) of his life.
And I saw it too – too bright to bear a colour. Like a god of harmony, a deity above Good and Evil, the divinity of simply Being, uniting the clustered sky and the dry earth. Fragile, thin like the memory of a daily walk in the park – you don’t know it’s there unless you want to see it. It cut through all the mists, through that blind purple shade of a stormy sunset, through
(…Where they’d love to watch you drown…)
the now-darkness of the wheat and through the cigarette’s smoke.
– Bye, bye, sunset.
– Are we still nowhere? I asked, still staring at the lightning, which stayed embossed on my retina.
– No. We’re in a where now. We’re not heading to the storm. Now we’re finding it.
– Don’t we need a when?
The sky gathered its
(…Time is a face on the water…)
tides. They came toward the long-gone rays of sunset, like waves, breaking in blue foams of lightnings.
The wheat fields had finally been replaced by a whirl of yellow birds, surrounding, dancing, creaking their frightening songs in the grey mist.
– So now we’re there? Where there’s none of them?
I inhaled deeply, put out the cigarette and opened the window. My green blouse fell off my shoulder, leaving a white sting inside my head.
Oh yes, I reached with my hands and grasped it with my mind and it was there, the harsh air, the evening awakening, the song, the birds, the butterflies falling from me into that insane whirl of storms and feathers. And yes, I grasped them all.
– This is quite a good one, he said, turning the volume up.
– How’s it called?
He waved his hand in front of my eyes, which were closed (I was just trying to see better), agitating the little orange dot in my mind.
– Ok. The beer is over, by the way.
I yawned, put my elbow on the window and my head on my elbow and closed my eyes again, carefully listening to the smoke and flashing orange shades.
And the wind and rain were lashing at my bare shoulder and my hair was lashing at my face, and the echo of time was lashing at my insides while the tone of that voice knocked with so much strength that I gave in and let it shape my soul according to its own will.
His voice and the storm. Time and fields of wheat. So much smoke and only a few thunders.
And somewhere, squeezed through all of these – me.
Quotes from Guns N’Roses, Metallica and The Dark Tower.