Beauty Seen is Never Lost

I’d like you to know it’s mine – that Quill & Parchment Bookstore,

I’d like to imagine you coming upon it:
Walking down that damp street; lifting your gaze slowly to the corner, and finding yourself touching your glistening veins in an unconscious attempt to test reality.
In your eyes, I’d verify its existence; that picturesque passion I’ve poured into this creation; that tiny sharp-edged scrap of my heart ; and a thousand ghastly days turned inside out.
It’s exterior is Aqua-blue. That distinct shade of late January; That shade of disparities: hostility, fragility, stillness, and chaos all at once; that shade of ripe fruit bowls and embroideries found in cribs, nurseries, and vintage jewelry boxes.
Yes, it’s that Aqua- blue. The one that comes to mind when I remember Tom Sawyer’s raft or Kindergarten lunchboxes. It’s the shade that streaks over childhood; over days spent using waterpaint on used-newspapers and drinking Horlex out of Lipton complimentary mugs.
.
The rims of the store are Golden, just here and there; a pale gold that refuses to shimmer but remains resolute all the same. It outlines the edges of those nine small, well-proportioned squared windows at the center of the door. It also refines those cursive ends that form “Quill & Parchment” on the high left. The words glide; the words shatter; the words break down again and again.

The window; an octagonal corner, branching itself outside, forming a peach seating area from within. Just like Boo Radley’s gift-bearing tree in “ To Kill a mocking bird”, the side door is carved with empty cubicles, where poetry and paper swans are left every now and then.

I like to imagine you, walking inside:

You look at the carpet, and remember how it feels to step on something that yields beneath you, you remember how the insignificant details, can make you feel alive again. You stand by the door; your heart tries to take it all, and you whisper “ A legacy, “. You look at the shelves, and you extend your hands, stroking one book after the other, because you know, they wept for you sometimes. You know of the ache that streams down their pages, and you know they hold my lonesome soul amidst their typewritten texts.
You look at the walls, and you know they’d never know the obsoleteness of unliving things. Frames upon frames of raw entities scraped off my lifetime, Van Gogh’s starry night upon Edinburgh’s skyline, upon E.E Cummings words upon Joss Weldon’s fictional creations.

I like to imagine you, placing your palm on one of the dangling single light bulbs, thinking of the days I vowed to bring back their worth without camouflaging them with feathers and crystals. You smile as your ears fall upon the instrumental melody of the Beatle’s “ Yesterday”, and you wonder why, I chose piano over violin; and you wonder if time is capable of changing vowels and tendencies; and you wonder if I still miss you.
And what came together in my head, will then fall apart.

Posted by Diddlina at 1:22 PM