From the Pocket of a Dream
One day, when I’m gone, you might still choose to browse through some never opened pages of my world. Then you might see raindrops and you might hear sounds. It might seem to you that the wrinkled parchment on the table gave way to all the merciless words that have burdened it through time; and now, deaf and yellowed, it just lies here, forlorn and trapped within its own oblivion. It might seem to you that there’s no one here any more and the silence that lingers within these walls is way too loud.
But the tears still exist. Tightly entwined with the letters, they have never really left. Sometimes, when the darkness took over, loyal and devoted – as they are – they lovingly shared their heart and bled with understanding.
And you know, in those moments, when I lay tucked into the sad pillows of loneliness, it felt like tears were the only friend. But now I know better: they were the main enemy.
My dear ones,
one day you might still choose to listen. And then you’ll perhaps even hear. The same strange strings I used to hear playing within my mind. When rustle of dread replaces heartbeats of longing. An uncommon melody, the same restless murmur you had in your heart, the same one you unexplainably used to repress so many times.
Yet, I want you to know. I have never blamed you. In stead, I wished I could hate the hunter who was so perfectly skilled in the artistry of words. Hate and ease the pain. Hate and smother the blaze in the heart that hungered to see you. But it was in vain. Incapable of doing that, I just let it all pass. As a thrown ball of glass which one decide just not to catch.
So, at the end, it hit the ground and shattered.
And now – nothing’s left, my precious, neither hate nor love; only a piece of parchment on the table. Belated, useless and forever unsent, it lies here just to tell another well-worn story….