Sky of you

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#zhuszoo ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─

#heartbreak

The other day while I was leaning on the rail of the subway I thought - how the routine and the cares of life have overtaken us, like subway doors opening to let in the thriving plethora at rush hour, doors that spit and shallow people. I would like then, wandering in my most tangled thoughts, to be a weightlifter to have the strength to resist this desire for a different life that I have always carried with me, but I don't know how to bear it alone on my back.

Why not something more hare-brained? Maybe not just the fact of being something absurd, rather the fact of being, seeing and living differently: why not externalize lives like squids with their inner ink? Have you ever wondered why that ink was suddenly thrown into the sea for no reason? Well, me too, what's more, it's one of my present dilemmas these days when my gaze is caught between the wind and the fluff present in the air, almost ashamed, hidden behind the rays of the sun.

Well, I have deviated a bit in of narrative and exceeded in of words, so I invite you to put aside all your commitments, while this troop of letters takes it as you wish, Akari. Either like the subtle autumn breeze to cherry blossoms or like the hurricane-like an enraged chimaera.

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The trip that had involved meeting you turned sepia, you put my feelings to dry in the sun, hanging on a rope-like an ink sack, you boiled all my dry moments with ammonia, thus eliminating any fragment of me that he ed. You turned my blood into sepia ink and thus used me to give an escape to the black and white photograph of your life, replacing those greys with an almost orange-red colour of the same colour that your hair turned when the afternoon sun touched them. You took my eyes to travel, showing me that it is possible to stare at the range of dark colours that sometimes cross life.

And I rose, you made me look beyond the white, the black, the sepia, the shadows, you made me look up and lose control of everything I could see under my feet, and I lost control of everything I could see under my feet.

But I wanted to be free, to go beyond the sky, I dedicated myself to looking a lot but not seeing anything behind the pawned winter windows. I longed for that feeling of freedom that was given to me by being suspended in the air and seeing beyond what is planted on the ground, and I became a blind man who when closing his eyes was flooded with stained white. But even despite the hazy sepia of the subway windows, I understood the simplicity of our encounters and my fingers became the canvas to shape that sepia woman in my memories. So that she would detach from the cold window and teach me to see the sunset behind a trail of dreams and to be free without opening my eyes.

The city today is so radiant, the facades of the houses contrast very well with that azure blue of the sky that seems to have spilt a bit of its vividness in the water that surrounds the city, while if you look at it from far away this city seems to be boxes thrown into the sea by some ship: perfectly aligned, maybe if you ever visit this city you can see the same view that I see. There are pleasant things where you look at it and see countless houses with different facades of wide colours.

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Streets with sidewalks and elderly people sharing a conversation, children playing games in the street, a magical city, perfectly illuminated that we could almost say, 'stopped in time'. I stop it for you too with these words, you give them life by reading them. Radios in the afternoons, dances of lights at night so perfectly aligned causing the reflection of the water to be like being in front of an immense stained glass window. Terraces with a seat present almost as a requirement for each inhabitant of that city to lie down and watch the sunset while the sound of the waves in addition to bringing foam to the shore accompanies it with calm, a city where day and night become one, a city where day and night contrast perfectly.

Many times the city is nothing more than a strainer of strangers, a place where a group of individuals spend their lives while walking by your side, some cracked like the streets still under construction in this city, others simply poorly paved perhaps for the life situations that they have witnessed, or simply because they forgot to spread the tar well since they only wanted to finish quickly as well as in many streets of our childhood, tired of filling their wallets day by day, emptying their souls, walking between silhouettes through the streets. From one person to another singing and smiling or perhaps arguing, exhausted souls look for a place to rest the weight of their bones.

There are days when I see cars and more cars by in the bus seat as well as the memories on the damaged road in memory, and nights when the road home s the weight of the day and does not allow to see more what long faces in the subway cars

In this city, an ambivalence of feelings occurs. Happiness for the old days of elementary school and the sad certainty that they will not return. I am writing this new letter and I am overcome by nostalgia for the endpoint. Over time I have learned to appreciate this final, fatal and scathing moment, tragic like life, which hides us that only beauty can be born in what is known to be perishable.

I wander out of the diegesis through that dry yellow canvas that serves as a consolation. Another story opens about me, one that has no endpoint, one that is interpreted in an environment with the smell of dust and wood, and that is full of bent corners that would crack if someone dared to return them to their place, I only pretend to guess which constellation they point to, deciphering what travellers from the past tell me. The other edges prevent words from escaping when they are not read, the colour palette is dominated by the oranges of a cloudy sunset, it begins in a dry wheat field and ends in clay tiles, full of cracks by the sun that runs through the desert in eternal twilight.

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Turning the pages of your letters allows me to see the path that the humidity followed halfway, where the sun at the zenith would frustrate its racking. This movement leaves in the environment notes of another much more particular colour, as much as I would like to use metaphors to describe the smell I could not do it, it is such a particular smell that it has no equivalent, it is the smell of an old book, one whose pages fought against time, not without leaving him with the scars that make him more attractive today. I have a terrible fascination for these unique and wonderful leaves, leaves that do not grow on trees. Fall.

I have written so many letters to you, Akari, and I still can't find a way to explain that I see silhouettes of you in every place, while I lose every trace of you in my memories. The tides and the stelae have a sky of you, I wish I had your love like this. But I don't have a single sign of you on me, nor the shape of your hands. I don't know if maybe we should forget. Will you have time to read these letters of mine? A strange time came into my life. A time that, inside my head, included black holes and rising stars. One of those moments in which fears and desires come true at the same time as if it were a beautiful dream that becomes delusional and feverish or vice versa. I hear the train approaching, sometimes the sound of the metallic friction that the wheels made when sliding seems like a soft storm, I hope our next meeting can be eternal, like that cherry tree leaf that dances in the wind fighting not to fall. I fight not to lose your memory in me, my love for you, but I don't know the way not to let it go away from me. My love for you is lost between books, sheets, beams of light and this cold mist stuck in the windows of the subway.

I don't know what cities or stations are like since you abandoned me at that train crossing, I can no longer distinguish between the colours that spread across the fields. Like the eternal fire beating with the wind, you have gone and divided the sky with your uncertain steps, making room for the dying rain that mocks its crystals in the middle of the cherry trees. The leaves and my heart are broken by your departure, I can no longer distinguish which of all is the light of day, nor noon, nor the songbird, I have even forgotten my name and the inclemency of the sun. I long for you to come back to me because I no longer recognize the windows since you covered the sun in my life, Akari.

.     ·      .      ·      .      ·      .      ·      .       ·      .

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Well, that was all my participation in this Valentine's challenge. But before finishing the blog I would like to clarify why I chose this anime. And the truth is that the concept of five centimetres per second, especially the first part, I like. Beyond the poor narrative handling, the letters are a narrative resource that allows us to delve a lot into the psychology of the characters. Writing letters is spending time with the other person thinking about what we want to tell them and how we want to express it. The letters reveal sensations, feelings and ideas that will cause the recipient to also think of a response to what he has received. It is, therefore, a very intimate genre. In the letters, the narrator is the subject and object of what is narrated. The characters let go, relax and discover their best-kept secrets. Many times these expressions take on an artistic or poetic form. The narrator imaginatively unifies his own experiences and it is then that this correspondence can be considered as a literary genre with its expressive potentialities.

Another very peculiar thing is that I am also fascinated by train travel. The reflections of tired faces in the windows, the tiny droplets of mist trapped in the middle of the double glazing, the smell of sandwiches creeping in from the cafeteria, the sheets of newspapers shivering in the trolleys that push stumbling through the aisles or the refrigerated spaces between wagon and wagon, where it almost always smells of tobacco, or sadness, which is almost the same. Trains have always seemed very romantic to me. But not romantic like a kiss under the mistletoe at Christmas or like the death of Romeo and Juliet. The train thing is a romanticism that goes beyond love. Something more transcendental than love itself.

And that's what I wanted to do when trying to write this, to describe what I think penetrates me inside these themes, that strange feeling left by the stations, the platforms and the goodbyes. Train journeys, correspondence and everything that surrounds them are something like the evocation of an indefinite distance of my soul with those of other human beings, a kind of pleasant emptiness that provides the recognition of the infinite loneliness that we accompany and defines us all. Well, I hope you liked it. Bye. ~

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