Category: memories

Summer #writephoto

Summer

summer

 

“It looks like cotton…” she said in a calm voice, “Only, there is no-one working here.”

The landscape was quiet, the never disturbed peace of late summer.

“And there is no shadow…” She added, with a sigh. Did she mean “shade”?

He looked up, toward the darker patches of green, beyond the meadow. Small white clouds leisurely walked the sky. He then looked down at his feet. It is then he realised what she had meant: they no longer had shadows…

They must have crossed the border, in this silence, from the land of the living, to the land of memories.

Time had stopped.

 

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Crossing #writephoto

Crossing

crossing

 

The shallow, clear water runs lazily between the rocks,

and the little islands of green life.

Oft we crossed the old bridge,

On our many walks, through this blessed land,

Observing, and being observed,

by creatures far more ancient, and wiser, than us.

Oft, we looked at our reflections in the mirror below.

Only, now, we only see the light of the sky,

for our images have been erased.

 

writephoto

5

Wave #writephoto

Wave

sea-mist

 

The free fall was the same, every night. There was the sheer terror of destruction, of being shredded on the sharp rocks, so far down, down… But he knew that this was a dream: as dawn came, he would see the light, inhale the scent of the ocean, for there was no fall, and the shore he remembered well: the sound of waves, her smile, their fading steps in the wet sand…

Then the nurse would come, and asked him how he had slept. As ever, he would smile and reply: “I was again on the beach”.

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Beginnings #writephoto

Beginnings

dawn

 

He knew where they had met, but he was less certain of when that was. He remembered the small town, and the woods, above all the woods, where they walked, kissed, watched the sun rise, the freezing dawns, enlaced, forever at one, with each other, and with the trees.

She was the one, and those were their beginnings. They watched the sun set, the skies on fire. Her grey eyes reflected the light. He had felt so strong then. He was, so they called him. She watched him go, such a breakup in her heart…

Now, after all the death, the sand, the blood, he was back. Alone, at the end, a fallen hero.

 

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Remains #writephoto

Remains

remains-3

 

He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.

Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.

Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.

So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.

5

Avenue #writephoto

Avenue

avenue

 

Under the bright green canopy we do not feel the heat of the day, nor do we venture in the full light. You and I merely enjoy the peace, the remoteness from the living. Far away, we hear children playing, perhaps even the notes of a violin, invisible, beyond the orchard.

We have lived nearby, in a house full of memories, ours and many others’, who may have forgotten us. For we have escaped time, as we replay those cherished moments in silence, our puzzled, ethereal ghosts haunting this land forever.

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