LETTER TO IRIS WRITING ABOUT PHANTASMAGORIA,
AND BRIGHTNESS FINALLY BACK AGAIN
Dear Iris, how are you?...
I'm writing you while I'm being under the spiritually
and "lisergicly" effect of Nick Drake's Autumnal feel and atmosphere
that seems to dominate my wandering soul, still blazing and asking, and beggin'
someone's attention, an unknown attention, for a peculiar hyper-sensitive guy, I
just let my ego be carried through the wind of unconsciousness, trying to
deliver my very last whispers of this early summerish morning prisoner of a
slightly yet overwhelming misty white.... Hazey Jane does not intentionally
seems to turn back and say once more "farewell my dear...", before she
steps into the obscured path, gently fading through the uncertain stream of oak
trees, those trees gradually vanishing into the eerily unusual foggy atmosphere............
I sweep my eyes along the phantasmagoria of this apparently uneventful day,
crawling my tired legs through the stages of a territory I still haven't got the
opportunity to learn about.... while warm, soft and calm tears of solitude and
frightening melancholy fall down from her weary and exhausted eyes, expression
of a soul torn apart, her precarious, broken thoughts thrown away with no reason...
Early afternoon is up-coming, maybe the nth afternoon filled up with unorthodox
and dreams gone bad, doubt over doubt, forbidden aspirations and paranoid still
thumping with evil intentions from side to side inside my raging, tumultuous
head. I every once and a while attempt to eat and kill those tiny painful, dark
shadows of grief...
My mind is there, ready to get caught, expecting to
runaway from the "usual" contortions caused by twisted, sleepless
nights, relentlessly seeking for a parallel space of mine, where I can lay my
head on a cloud made of silence and
uncompromised hope for the very-next-to-come evening.... Waiting to quit the
oak-tree-path; Hazey Jane has already reached her park of joy and madness, I did
not have the courage to trespass the ultimate door... I had nothing to do than
staying here and taking silently part in the singing and harmonizing of a
musical storm brought by hundreds of pipers and beggars who, now, are
accomplishingly sorrounding and "embracing" me once more with
undeniable passion, joy and warm,
soft, glowing and glorious beauty in the shape of an almost red-faded Sun
falling onto my low, subdued smile, giving me one more reason to feel and "touch"
sheer brightness again.
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