I looked at each wave, as if staring at a magnificent piece of art, just like a newborn looking out of the protecting hands of his mother at the external antagonist world. And as I was there in a would be magnificent world another wave came rushing over as if to remind me that I was dreaming, for I was just passing by like a number in an accountants’ ledgers.
Looking out of the window, watching the days go by, and wondering if reality was as real as its name implied. There was a slight reflection of myself in the window created by the glimmering yellow light bulb of the bed lamp. The sea in the distance glowing the obscured light of a half moon and the skies as black as ever, with little white dots like salt flakes reflecting the few light that penetrates through the winter clouds.
My current fixation with doors has dragged me down once again to Valletta, and for another time I have discovered new angles, new sides which hath remained in the dark for all the time when I visited. Today the light sheds from the warmth of the “lanterns” that have inspired me to look within even further. Accompanied by two friends to observe or appreciate further the magnificence of this place we moved along the narrow streets.
In pairs we walk through the tunnel, contained through a rusting fence, prohibited from moving around within a diameter of a maximum of 5, maybe 7 meters. The wooden benches carved and tattered, aged through the passage of time and the weathering of this anguished environment, dirty, filthy, unwelcoming. The walls, dug out by the blowing winds of winter and scraped by the scorching rays of summer, a process recalled by these walls for ages. The obscene frescoes on these walls are the only most recent addition which contrary to the rest seem to increase as more of us pass by through the years. Graffiti that display history, nationality and maybe even state of mind.
Listening to the ticking sound of an old clock, resting on a table now empty, wondering on thy past. Sensing the smell of a pie who’s creator rests within the world of dreams. Beside me on this table, carved with with a knife called time, rests a bunch of apples, as small as a bunch of wild berries, which in Maltese we call a “Merh”.
The window, wide open letting the cool breeze inside, helping my pencil through its scribbling symphony, wondering what else to draw, wishing no end for this timeless moment.
