My unfinished story

do not let the fact that most don’t reply put you off recluse, they are all heathens with the exception of a few :wink: :lol:

@toybulldog wrote:

@recluse wrote:

Also there was an unfinished story, strange and funny to read, and a
footpath by the river, dragonflies on the sleeve. Winter didn’t last long,
but everything got buried under the snow, and cold snowflakes that fell
between the lines washed out the ink to violet blots.
I remember that town, my town, with huge buildings and streets without end.
It was so easy to get lost there. Do you want me to tell you about myself?
Do you think I will manage to do it; link all the words in a long, long
chain? Like a funny toy train it will be. Puff puff, going in circles,
falling, its carriages splitting apart. An inquisitive eye through the
keyhole, but as if its forbidden to tell what you’ve seen, as if they can
punish you for that. And there, behind the door, the chairs are already in a
different place, but there is no new furniture in the room, and visitors are
not expected. Only those occasional guests, they may come, those to whom you
have given the keys, who wont find this old fashioned room strange.
There, outside, rain is rustling, turning the pages of days. And somewhere
near, here in the darkness Schubert plays his wonderful tunes. How easy it
is to meet misunderstanding, how difficult it is to be different from the
others. I wish to listen to you maestro. I want to hear you, you and the
silence.
It’s probably silly indeed to make a self portrait looking at yourself in
the mirror. The mirrors have that strange sin of not being able to tell you
the truth, never. Maybe its better to note just an occasional gesture, the
sigh, the slight nod of the head, recognise, and remember?
Thoughts are roaming around, bumping against the objects. And here is that
sound again, it was born in that fairy town. I know it, and often write
there, but the postman gives me my letters back and says he doesn’t know of
such a country. So, maybe to go there on foot? Do you remember the way, can
you go? Yes, I can go, I remember! Where are my boots for the trip? Where
are they? Where?

It may seem that everything you write you can write to a finish, with a dot
as a sign of the end. And to understand yourself, and to explain what the
violets smell like to someone who really wants explanations. But not. Blank
sheets of paper in huge piles, white colour piling up everywhere. Enormous
amounts of paper, of bricks, walls and windows. And you are in search of the
door, in search of the truth, of the sense.

Night street and somebody hurrying towards you. Hi! Who are you? Maybe it’s
me? And this route from myself to myself is nothing else, but a chain of
re-incarnations? Alikeness? No, you will scarcely be recognised. But is it
good or bad not to be recognised at all?

Changing of mood and seasons, the illusion of happiness, passion for
beautiful phrases and rhythm. Let everything be as it is. Ill have that
illusion back. When everyone else has gone, someone should stay behind. With
those remaining, we’ll have a long chat. And it won’t matter where they come
from, we will understand one another without a word. And maybe I’ll try
again to step on that path, to start that trip barefoot in the snow from the
very beginning, and it will all last long. And I will feel the gravity of
the earth, and leave traces after myself.

No, the work is bound not to be monumental, with the thoughts scrappy and
hopes easily fleeting away. Perhaps just a snap of the occasional camera? A
strange photo, with the edges torn, the picture vague indeed. A white spot
on a black background, with its form slightly resembling..Really? yes,
maybe. Anyway, nothing can be changed. The black and white essence will
always remain the same, and other parts you can paint or cover with
drawings. Afterwards, when the snow has gone, everything will look
different.

Composition, with no topic given, you can hardly find the plot. Turn of the
year as a retro style is completely out of place. A handful of orange
twilight. Path meeting the skyline. The photograph, to remind me of,,
myself.

great expectations? be true to yourself but always remember there is someone somewhere who is genuinely interested in your travels along lifes’s highway..

@(f)politics? wrote:

Lovely!

where is recluse ? were they the only two posts ?