A Sound of Balancing - pages 11-12
- Admin
- Jan 12, 2018
- 1 min read
In writing again, I followed the funeral march of my previous manuscript. The path was painted in sumptuous acrylics, the pebbles browning like dead leaves. We arrived to autumn from summer like the subtle realization when traversing a provincial border. No, more like wandering without knowing the bold traditions that preceded us. The soil was filled with war, but my heart was at peace as I trailed the invisible hearse.
I had reread the manuscript in its entirety the day before and, how can I put this, it was like I had seen trees floating through the paper’s river, silent and unbudging. My words gave nothing but a dying light. I merely collected the leaves that had all been cast away, in a futile attempt to reunite them. This is the funeral procession I attended the following day: the death of my discoveries.
The burial ended itself at the foot of the driveway, beside the old car that grazes on its hay. I returned inside the home where my childhood awaited. There, I recovered myself at 8-years-old.
He bequeathed me a felt pen, saying, “Here, take and write. As for me, I shall walk. I will return to see you when you have finished.” He smiled, plunging his big, stubborn head of granite pecked by flames into the blank paper.
I departed. From what I skimmed, it seemed he was writing letters. He doesn’t know how to write anything else; his life was nothing worth writing about. As the panda munches eucalyptus, he sustained himself by drinking ink. That’s all he knew.
[Translation (c) ~CRK 2018]
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