In the shade, under an old Franciscan construction part of a monastery, watching a storm approach towards the place I rest. It felt odd that I was in the shade after walking up a steep hill in the scorching sun and now watching a storm buildup just minutes away from a real heavy shower.
Archive
Tag: Time
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.
Like footprints in the sand which slowly fade away, my thoughts swiftly flow through, whilst the wind blows my sun scorched face here in Golden Bay. The sea, symphonically rushing its way through the pebbles which rest upon the sea bed. Nothing to see accept the sun, slowly fading away in the horizon reflecting its warmth for the last moments of the day. I look up towards the skies, and all I can see is a tower, which like a chameleon has adapted to its surroundings maybe to protect itself, to survive through the turmoil of time and mankind’s greed for power.
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.
