Sometimes, I go to the shore, looking for beyond the
landscape, a faraway horizon and on and on. But, what am I looking for a plain line
in a complexity of forms, textures, and colors in an old port? A busy sailor
and stevedore that feels hyper-real compare to any walls. Although that I want
to get is serenity, a glittering image of the waves hit by the twilight. I picture
myself rowing an unknown small boat and wade. Just like that, I can reach that
obscure horizon. But, just before I end up my imagination, a fisherman takes on
my boat, brings entangled fishnets. And my chance is gone.
The seagull flies. He said to me, “Just fly, my dear, and
you can find your own curving horizon.” Too bad, I am just like those doves
that bound to their cote, just fly around and back when night falls.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment