Τρίτη, 1 Ιανουαρίου 2013

Loss


I count the days and they smell of loss. As many as more others after in infinite time we think we have bound. Delusions. The exterior can only change from within, and this is where we go to pot… So?…
A bitter smile and a sham optimistic look. We won’t go anywhere. We’ll stay right here. For how long? For as long as…


I come across dreams as I advance and see them feigning laughably. I remain silent and shut myself deeper within, in a zero of zeros, in nothing, on the off chance of being saved. Then come colours to trick me, to invite me to their side and be ranked with them. They stick on me glibly, with countless smiles and open hearts that don’t exist, only innermost ulterior thoughts, words always, maths always, and river-like they sweep me at night when my mind is asleep or on sick leave… When it turns, it is amazed to see me in such a pitiful state. To be just another fruit in the kitchen fruit basket, thanks to the numerous injections, looking more sickly, wilting.

Is flight paradise? Is silence smartness? Or is it fear?

Which taciturn prison-breaker was ever propitiated?

However, that little in me talking will fall silent. So lesser it is.

It’s still summer and she dreads the autumn’s yellow leaves and the years that pledge to come.

She limits colours to grey for truths and leaves for horizons that don’t cater to endearment.


With only a few such thoughts I left that day. Away… as far away as possible, to encounter my deepest wounds and escape familiar looks.

I wore a leather jacket and suede boots to match; I took a travelling bag in one hand, the laptop in the other, and before me spread Greece like a carpet.
My Greece! Green and blue. More of blue. An adorable wave.
Less green, since red memories blackened it at unexpected moments.



Maria Andreadelli

Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas


(to be continued)