Monday, 10 January 2011

When travelling hurts

The fear of a blank page.

This must be the fear that most of good writers feels every day, or night.
In my case, a good glass of wine helps me a lot during this darkest times.So many things comes up after a little bit of boozing.

Now I can perfectly understand how the stories were made back in the medieval times, when those old lads stayed in drinking and dreaming their lives on a raining night, sometimes in a dirty pub among dirty women, sometimes inside their chambers, involved in candle’s light and their own loneliness, singing all the pain down the blank pages on their old desks, dusty and smelly like ships anchored round the shore.

My story today might sounds like an old tale, begins with a young lady laying on the grass, far from the civilization, far from her responsibility’s, far from her real life. The sun shines and it’s baking hot, she’s under a tree observing her love watching over her, he’s quiet, also handsome, he’s got an apple in his hands, and he cuts it with a sharp pocket’s knife with such a precision that it’s unbelievable he’s not a knight on shine armour.

He drinks from his glass, red and dark wine, warm and not sweet at all. The thick drink burns all the way down his throat and some tears comes easily out his eyes, he jokes about it and she laugh with grace, both continues embraced and caressing each other, the touch makes her fragile skin shiver, he uses a flower to bypass her whole body, saying that he wants the flower to pick her scent up so he could keep a memento from that moment.

Like a king he demands her love, and she, just like a queen, demands poems, affection, promises, long life, children, eternal care and love that lasts forever.

They don’t speak the same language, they are both in foreign country, eating and drinking from a place that their parents never thought would ever step on, in few days both of them will leave that little paradise, but nothing else matters, the time has stopped for them, they will be young forever in that little time encapsulated on the wine’s bottle.

How easily they get into that dream, he wishes she could follow him through all the way to his homeland, far from there, so strange from hers, and she just wants his hands massaging her feet while a bird sings its heart out loud, nobody can see them, and no one could understand such a fast relationship that grows fond in a silent noon, and will be terminated by morning, but remembered forever.

How hard it’s for a pilgrim of the world, to cross the meridians, tropics, seas and skies and keep his promises, or to love the moment and let it go in the next day?

It’s evening already, a gentle breeze blows their sweaty faces, and they decide to go down the beach, away from the forest, arms wide opened to the sea, she climbs his back and both go on a gallop jokingly, falling in deep, dark, turquoise waters, refreshing body and soul, her smile is definitely something else, he sits on the white sand, not worried, not thinking, not even breathing, just imagining what if that whole day could become their whole life from that moment on, but was a mistake to rely upon destiny, destiny was no where to be seeing that night, and she left next morning kissing his forehead, and till now, stings like a branded tattoo.

1 comment:

  1. Phew... Great that not all traveller's stories end up the same way... 12th of March!! ;-)