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The box is as old as it is full of the remembered and that which lies beyond. Photographs, ancient and forgotten; their tattered edges are as the process of memory. When that fades away, there is legend and then nothing
They fall between my fingers and time slips away; occasionally a word, a glance or a question parts from these ghosts. The colours gradually melt away and the scene turns first to black and white and then to sepia tone.
Myself as a child. Naked, smiling. Pristine.
The man in the bowler, an umbrella under his arm, is stiff, expressionless. His hands seem to fret at the border of his overcoat - blurred and uncertain. Of the hands, there is no longer memory.
 A cemetery in the countryside.
The final photograph.
She is tragic and beautiful.
She turns, shying from the camera as if to say, 'No, not like this!'
Please let this be wrong.
No memory, no legend.
Time has left you alone, as have the living.
Do you retain memory of yourself? |
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Posted by badlydrawnstickman on 2007-07-19 17:36:15 | Rating: | Views: 195
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Whispy and provocative.
I like this as a metaphor.
And just in general.
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Posted by Veneto
on 2007-07-20 11:42:35
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Hello badlydrawnstickman. This is very deep. Keep on writing and I plan to hear from you soon.
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Posted by Insanity
on 2007-07-26 13:25:17
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Deep. Keep it up! =)
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Posted by ruriko
on 2007-07-28 09:03:23
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wow.
whispy AND deep!
i must be cool.
thanks guys!
:o)
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Posted by badlydrawnstickman
on 2007-08-18 09:32:28
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I really like it. It's very deep and makes you think... I love the imagery and the rhythm. [= This is one of the best things I've ever read.
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Posted by Sirem
on 2007-08-20 20:04:31
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this is really nice
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Posted by NutintheSky
on 2007-10-18 20:27:10
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