There is a shelf. Where her dreams go to die. Wrapped with expensive gift paper. Coated liberally with the colours of psycedelia. Death is nothing, if not beautiful, eh?
There is a shelf.
Browse along. There is that one peeking from behind the cascading ‘string of pearls’ the one where captured movement and memories in her verses. She doesn’t go there any more. She doesn’t go anywhere anymore. Does walking around in a limbo count? Does it matter?
One step below the shades of literature is that one where she coloured the world in her own interpretation of chairoscuro. Life, love, hope, tragedy, grief. Nothing stays any more. Evaporates. Gone forever. Just like the death of dreams when we wake up and realise there is no glamour to it. Life has to be lived, spent, finished.
There is a shelf.
What is that? Behind the fish bowl? Weeds of quotidian breaths, malignant life that doesn’t end. The drurdgery, the unfairness of it all. The injustice. But is it really that- unjust? Or her perspective shaded with the ‘could-have-beens’ making her see betrayal where there isn’t one?
Life doesn’t owe shit to anyone. Life serves us what we deserve. And maybe that is what is hard to swallow; this bitter pill of a life so ordinary. Maybe that is why her dreams go to die amongst that shelf where lie the embraces of lovers, tears wept over dead parents, whims of a pampered child; amongst words that could have been the lies we tell ourselves when we want to hear them, read them- those that could have been the truth had we found the courage to believe, imagine, trust. Her dreams lie buried amongst the wisdom of ages and words of the wise. They find their home between parchment and leather. This is where her dreams go to die.