She used to dream, in infant prayers, of such an elysian place in which one could reveal itself, in beamed honesty, while shamelessly disregarding all the rules of a repellent society.
But as you flourish into ripeness, much like any flower blooms into a fated autumnal death, those mischief means of a temporal existence will inevitably turn your virginal decency into others’ animosity; for once an emotion is spoken, it no longer stands for its meaning but for the loose interpretation of each negligent percipient.
Let them ride their worries, she said.
Let them ride their dark thoughts and ambitions…
Let them ride their disappointments…
Let them ride them all, in a predetermined bleak universe over the arid horizon ahead, towards certain orphic oblivion, for there is nothing wrong in failing, if failing means nothing more than defending your inborn decorum from an obstructive manner of understanding the undeniable recondite condition of feelings and their shadowing fragility.
And, while hiding all my grief behind a lovely forged smile, I will surely collapse into a self growing Brobdingnagian lily-white ocean, only to get pulled out deep by the undertow of my own bleeding heart, away from chagrined accusations and misconceived beliefs, to find comfort in the afterglow of the present tense, with nothing but a feeble notion of what the world should resemble – a mystifying droplet, eternally wandering around the purest feeling of them all, leaving nothing behind but a gentle scent of those flapping wings of a hummingbird and a salty taste on your lips.
Perhaps I’m crazy but, I contemplated her soft whispered words in search of my own vocation, and I found my peace in sweaty palms, as she gently lied by my side…
Helen - an elusive blooming, Constanta 2012