Beauty Seen is Never Lost

Dedicated to those who know the sound of “ Clocks” by “ The Black Pipers” with their eyes closed.



Some days never die .
they glaze our existence like a scented-phantom, trailing behind us wherever we step.
Those July days:
They’re here and there, at the core of every facet that make up my Todays.

At the bottom of my Navy converse.
We took a walk in that eerie forest,. Twigs, crisped leaves, misplaced belongings, branches tied with torn fabrics and one horrific garden. “A lost soul”, one of us said, “A psychotic lunatic, said the other, “ or perhaps, a creative artist.” Half-buried gnomes outlined it’s entrance, broken-winged butterflies and hanging garments, toys and statues marked every wooden pillar of the fence and marbles found their way around our feet. Something, somewhere, at the threshold, rendered us immobile. “ Don’t you realize, that we try to create meaning, when there isn’t any? Why is it, we believe, there is a story for everything?”

On that white luggage tag: " 123”.
They warned us, “ never leave the fire exit door open” ; for intruders could be lurking around in every corner, and history had proved that dead bodies could be hidden in trees for days. But Room “123” is right above “ 219”, and efficiency downsizes fear of theoretic stories we’ve heard. We grabbed our blankets and pillows, tiptoed our way to that red door we became accustomed to, and held our breath as we went downstairs to that sleepover we promised. And if I could break it down, those snippets would be the loudest, “ How have I never noticed, how large your toes are?”,
“ I had a dream, about a Tree”, and
“ That Alarm ringtone, is deathly”

And they’re there, in that gold-rimmed Ray Ban shades
“ Ocean Terminal”, she said, “ That’s where we’re headed tomorrow, I have a feeling, it’s a magical place”. And on we went on that sunny day, from one bus stop, to another, to another, from moderately normal-sized buses, to two-leveled ones until we finally reached, that salt-scented town; they called “ The Ocean Terminal”. “ Well, im slightly disappointed,” she said, as we stood in a bland mall, that held no promises. But we found our ways, in between the stops, to a Pizza Hut, right in the middle of a bar-infested area. And those conversations we exchanged over a Blue-cheese pizza, were the beating heart of that infinite day.
“ Don’t leave a tip, keep it for the needy”,
“Don’t tell me you expect me to drink your coke after this lunch we had?” and
“ I can’t believe we entered without waiting to be seated.”
But I know, it wasn’t the words; it was them.


And they’re there, tracing my purple Ipod.
At the back of the bus, we sat. “ Let’s play 20 questions,”, ,. From start to an end, and an end to a start, we found ourselves, unraveling political views and weaving worldly arguments, “ Jamal Abdul Naser you say? I would agree if he didn’t use the rich to fulfill the needs of the poor!” , “ And what about those Turkish Policies? Where do you stand on that? Public imagery versus true intent? “
“ I don’t think so!”
And the world slept, while we dissected it.

Some days, never die.

Posted by Diddlina at 5:49 PM