Saturday, September 8, 2012
Woke up inside a 200-year-old room. The soggy cloths on the wall hangers had terrible nightmares. Hair, cheek and right-hand that were near the window were speckled with tiny, wet, yellow leaves from the tamarind tree outside. A lady-bird measuring the circumference of a toe-nail. I look up and see a beautiful woman sitting on a branch, eyes the colour of the pond she once drowned in. Old doors have a way of looking upon you benignly, coxing you to sleep a little longer, the wooden bolt bent into a kindly smile, knobs blinked and winked until the first ray froze it back to lifelessness.
I want to believe that when I return I shall be changed, I shall carry this extraordinariness within me like a pace-maker, a flaw or a reconfiguration. My cells might be replaced bit by bit by clouds, daylight or dragonflies.