John’s Story – I
There was John, laying on the ground, sun hitting his face. he felt like a bag full of bricks on an empty street. He felt his consciousness fading away between the tireness and the heat of a sun he no longer recognised.
He was by all means alone in the middle of nowhere, he didn’t know which way was north or south. He knew his hurting legs feeling red. He felt the breeze, the brief breeze of old bathing his face on the floor, and at the same time he felt there was more, there was more around him that he ever imagined.
Where was he? What was this lost place with bricks and sorrow, with floors of horrors and white walls? What was that yellow ceiling and the black windows dripping blue water on the corner of his mind.
What was the fly that didn’t stop asking why? Why his ears stood alone on their own?
He was in a prison, a prison of his mind; he was on a moment in time, a moment in time where the word outside didn’t matter. There was something aluding him on this reality, something lying to him about green trees and smiles passing by.
Now he could see cars, he could hear busses honking from afar, but the time spend walking was the same time he felt the weight of his mind. The naked hands struggling on his neck, it was the same time of yesterday, the same time, it just didn’t felt the same.
“Spare a cigarette?” a strange voice; somehow strange, somehow familiar. A sentence he have heard before, but like many sounds it was slightly different that yesterday. It was an strange melody of memories of giving away, of asking away momentos, strange melodies, strange moments he thought.
“Sure” His finger went diving, shaking, into his jacket pocket.A moment distracted of illusions. He was still shocked at the vision he just had. “Is like everything, I guess” a deep almost recognisable voice spoke from the deeps of his own. “Almost there, just a light and you’ll see”.
“See?….. See what?”. “Was there anything to see?”.. black and yellow and red. Is like a cigar, like a world in his own, so take the light.
The stranger was no longer a stranger. It was a awfully familiar face, a face he saw every morning, every day.
So it happens that sometimes we see ourselves on the life of others. And sometimes we wonder what and why. What would be like…? Why is it that we think what? But the mystery.. there is no escaping the mystery. Was there no escaping his own mind? and why would you ever wanted to? Is it beautiful to life your own life? Is it wonderful to struggle and come out alive? more alive than never before with a fresh piece of own?
So the mirror on his mind was off for a moment returning to the black room with white floor in a middle of a desert. Flashing moments and nothing more like a room in a sofa. upside down his life, like always, he felt something insde him, a melody coming to life, coming to live its own sound because of memories was made his mind.
He sat down now to take a fresh piece of breath His life, living a melody, living a life. And what about of those wonderful moment of the past? Lies? There was never a lie. Life happens as it is, you just make the truth of a version of your own, of what your eyes can absorb, of what your skin tells you, just listen careful an you’ll know what it strikes you… as always, it will always strike you as a version of your own life.
So sitting down again was his own life, with him, whatever that means.