pepi07072020

There must have been a place and a time when flowers blossomed without effort. That the sun was shining without the need of a downpour or a rainbow beforehand for someone to gratify its omnipresent, everlasting glory of warmth.

The breeze was blowing to fan faces or tickle the grass. You didn’t have to be high to feel like you were flying. Songs delivered this zero gravity sense to you any time you felt a little heavier on the ground. And even if you had to look up birds would be humming the same song along with you. Colors would not fade at that time and you could always see the place illuminated even when the night prevailed. On the main streets of this place beating hearts and smiling faces would exchange gestures and greetings and schedule dates for the weekends.

In that place, at that time, the ticks of the clock were just an illusion. A very stubborn one and everyone was making fun of it just a little before the clock shows it was midnight. Every night.

In that place dream fairies never left anyone waiting and visited everybody’s dreams every night; even during the day occasionally. Sometimes dreams started during the day as well and kept on forever. In this place nobody was born with a purpose nor were they trying to find meaning in life. They simply lived, existed, and devoted themselves to being happy. They created their happiness all alone and that is how they knew it was going to last. Sometimes they had the chance to do otherwise, deviate change, their route but they never did. They regretted nothing. They kept on drawing their lifeline seeking for faces creased with smile, laughter, and echoes of them filling the neighborhoods, the streets, the walls, the forests, and ultimately their hearts. At this place and at that time that there must have been people shared their properties, were making clothes for each other according to weather conditions, were cooking like it was a special occasion every night and were gathering around bonfires on the beach to sing, narrate stories of the other worlds they read in books, and the sparkles of the flames matched with their eyes like sunrise matches with the clouds.

There must have been this place. I know it must. I was there. I remember being there.

I remember the strolls in the harbor at the middle of the night with my hair smelling fresh popcorn and my eyes unable to get enough from the salt and water around me. Now at the corner of my eye, there is always a grain of sand causing tears and like a ritual performed I wipe it out with my sleeve. This ritual gives me a sense of control. That I can still monitor the tears from falling. I fool myself that I can stop them from time to time. This sleeve gives me the pride of proper apparel in case this instant of me ends up to frame. I will decorate the upper shelf next to the fireplace and the logs will not be enough to burn all night and bring back the warmth of the harbor sun for a while. I will stay there smiling in my portrait always having a scorch on my skin. The one that I realized when I guzzled all the popcorn from the box.

I will remember. Memory is a choice. Not a smart one since it keeps on setting off warning bells that you have to keep on buying new shoes all the time because the old ones, soon enough, will no longer fit you. But still a choice.

Choices define you. Though we hear that a lot and these words occasionally end up a deadly boring cliché, it is more true than the date we were born. The first thing people notice on us that day is our mind. This does not happen by chance. This part of or body includes the eyes that keep track of the visual and give order to the brain what to keep or not. It also includes our nose, an organ that helps eyes to be hidden and helps us have one more means of printing things in our minds. Scents. Even the bad ones give one more aid to the eyes to transfer the message to the brain and leave it there forever. Ears and sounds are usually the firsts to come and the firsts to go, except of we are dealing with voices and that takes us to the last part which is the mouth. Voices hold emotion — that is why they still carry on haunting us even when all other sounds have perished.

All these parts even when you think they don’t always team up to create memories. Your memories. So, keep your head with all of them in the order you wish and make sure they are taken well care of. It is all you have. It is all you are regardless if you appreciate them or not, if you want them or not, if you intended them to be created or not. They are there they are with you and they are your map. Your guided tour through life.

You don’t have a choice over them but, then again, that too is your choice.

 

Author: Pepi Naki

Leave a comment!

Do you have an article suggestion?

Feel free to send us your suggestion about an article you would like to read.