I am begging for a life that is not mine. Something else. Anything else. I am searching for a dimension that can take me in and change everything. An alcoholic drug addict author waiting for inspiration in a garage in Amsterdam, a flower lady dreaming about her lover as she grubs up the plants, a bookstore owner in London trying to escape the crowd to find inner loneliness, a child learning the alphabet. Something. Anything. I am begging for something other than this.
I am worried about the book in
my hand as I do not have an umbrella with me on a rainy day. A gloomy day
getting swept away by slight drops of rain. The line that stands between the
passengers and their bottled-up feelings of agony is filled with a puddle, soon
to be covered by a train. I am worried about the book in my hand because
letting a defenseless book get wet and worn off under the rain would be a
poorly planned murder. I do not have an umbrella, you see, what I have on me is
a seven-year-old crimson, chequered vintage coat. I am trying my best to hide
my copy of Le Mythe de Sisyphe inside it. When the train that lets you
get a full tour of the city -unintentionally, of course, due to its horrid
velocity- arrives, I get in and start filling my head with thoughts that could
get me through this.
I imagine getting off in a town
that is not mine. I get off in the town of red leaves and wisteria. The walls
are embroidered with crimson touches of nature. The air…Well, the air spreads
life. I am under the spell of this town somehow. I walk and walk some more
until I am a red wisteria standing in the middle myself. I do not like it when
I am unarmed, which happens when I do not have any trees or leaves in the
street surrounding me. So, I take a turn and step into a narrow street full of
trees and their hidden treasures. Homeless folks blended into the greyness of
the town. Embroidered trees. Old cars are covered like they have something to
lose. And finally, hidden stores stuck between buildings and branches. I see
myself getting into a vintage store and hearing the stories of the clothes
hanging there. A plaid shirt worn by a painter in Italy, she painted the
happiest painting ever, then when she wanted to be happy herself she poured all
the paints she used into her stomach. A velvet dress worn by Hedy Lamarr, who
knows? A wallet carried by one of the first publishers in England. They all
have stories. Stories that are not mine. Stories that I want to be mine.
