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HOPE

Once there was a place, hidden among the throatiest secrets of our soul’s rainforest.
Its secrecy could even blur either the simplicity of its structure or the sharpness of its rims. Some elder people used to call it “lost memories”. Some others had even mistaken it by a less topographical ‘place’ named “unconscious”. Despite any possible unbelief (quite typical and wise attitude among our evolved societies) this tale is as real as one could ever imagine, simply because it’s here and there…

At those whereabouts, a fragile and marshy pond, scarcely sparkled with nenuphars – grown up from the happiest moments of life – and tiny myrtles of modesty, resembles a path bleeding countless minuscule seeds of an unknown chemical element, or origin, or fate, which leads to an unlevelling, a fissure that simultaneously comes out from and brings back to the earth - everyone’s soil. Some people refer to this place when threatening things dramatically happen but often forget or simply can’t retrieve where the image came from, or when do these frothy bubbles of plain life flow off from these peaceful yet repentant holes of envy whose speechless darkness can both inveigh no more and keep no resentment overseen...

This lightening melody compels the mind to listen to the whispering children’s dance, mocking someone from behind the fog – the same one that still can’t protect them. Hence, useless observers drawn into vanities, stitched with threads of futile doubts, they all seem unaware until what matters comes nearby and upsets their shadowland of thoughts.

“Beware!” cries the pond to these dreggy blind foragers. Still, they are deaf as well…
“It’s rather unlikely they hear you” says the oldest child “but don’t give up on calling them”, “yes, otherwise they’ll fall into the holes again…” adds the youngest. The pond nodded and its throbbing started wetting the grown men’s feet.

One could not imagine such an odd picture… A bunch of adults suddenly gathering on the wet grass, laughing and playing, smiling at the sky. Their attitude had changed, now. And as soon as they came up with a plan for the things to do with the rest of their lives, they ran off.

Another dawn springs and such shiny spells subsist themselves with the guidance and strength that those little intertwined reeds provide. Our stratified feelings work likewise at their turmoil and pace. Our utmost desires drink at this place. It is even said that when this bewitchment fawns our joys, a praiseworthy plyer resting in each one of us guides his pram again throughout the rye and wheat fields, in stroll of himself.

Should we let him on the loose...


by brainstory & storytaylor

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