Memories Of An Spinning Head

There was John, resting on what felt like sand, air hitting his face, dancing thru his face’s shape, playing catch me if you can. There he was without any recall, feeling his dry sticky lips on every little bit of movement, needle-like sand particles hitting his face, getting into his nose and mouth with every gut of air. His forehead was on fire, he felt like he has been living in an oven for over 15 years of his life. Not in vain the word sounded so weird.

Little by little he was opening his eyelids, letting a mild pain being deliver to his pupils by the sunshine all around him.

How much time John have spent laying there? Nobody knew, it was only know he was in the middle of a desert now that his hands began touching the ground and an intense yellow dominated his field of vision, extending all the way to he horizon.

This was weird, until last night his life was a party, a total handover was taking ahold of his brain, and the thirst of the memory continue to travel thru his mind. Beyond, the question was “How did he get where he was?” “What he was doing there right now?” and “What happened in the middle?” All this ideas concentrated in a bulk on his mind, pieces and more pieces, the same way his life laid in the back on a crab How was it possible for life to turn out that way? Big question! For centuries the most frequent interrogate to the human mind, next to what woman think.

How is it possible to live on a crab’s back that at the same time sings at the top of a hurricane? Would it be the process of making art? The process of living? Or maybe both? that in reality don’t differ much one from another. That was the question right now on his life, crab or no crab. Interesting he though, after all how was it that he came to where he was standing? and How could he get out? Because of  course, he wanted to get out, didn’t he?

Questions and more questions flew by his head, and to a certain extend he knew the answer. The answer was always with him, he now knew it, whatever it was, he knew it. At the same time he didn’t had the answer yet. How could he? after all, all he knew is that he knew, and he knew how to write an entire world from scratch and along with the idea a sea of possibilities entered his mind. Along with the hangover he still had.

Right now, that wasn’t sounding so near. How? questions, questions and more questions. His was on a spinning spiral down the rabbit hole of the celling under the sand. Still confused by what he was witnessing, still alive by a mere piece of air, the world wasn’t only yellow, but somehow it was music at the rhythm of his heartbeat, transformed by the colors of the melody the word around was changing into a forever shape. Within the walls of his room he saw change.

Soon the infinite desert was no more, instead it felt like a portable living room where the floor, the walls, the celling were just painted of an endless landscape, he could escape indeed. If this was a portable living room, he could either get out or stop carrying it around, he end this. Further more, his forehead wasn’t burning anymore, the was feeling instead a cool breeze, it was an AC, so yes, this was a room.

The cool air bough to him the melody never heard of an instant. The instant that escapes time after time to catch him once more twenty seconds down the road. It was a process, a process in itself, the evolution of time, and witnessing time is no longer recommended. Ears of a camel said you better hurry and catch a plane, unless you are caught up listening to the never-ending melody of living. How was it that he was living after all? His life was far beyond those 3 walls, so what was he them? He should hurry up.

…… to be continued

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