The library was hanging from the cliffs touched by beaming rays of sun. Heavy with books but void of footsteps and hushed down breaths. I ascend and then descend to it through curvy alleys, gliding between beautiful shades and shadows. It’s seen no other soul for long now – its one and only still librarian looks like a carefully placed painting.
Here my soul is not on fire and if it feels closer to its hell’s furnace I hop down five hundred winding steps to calm it down into the water.
Here I can wear my heart in red. A white gardenia flower in my hair trails my presence if you want to find me in this dream or your reality. My skirt, a dark peacock’s tail in iridescent pearl black, sweeps away my footsteps so you can lose me if you’d rather. I am the spirit you have seen that night when life hatched in the sand. And here I wear my pride and passion in each step.
In the cliff-hanging library the many books and chapters are waiting to be written. I sit whilst words and feelings pour out of my head and mouth. There is no howling wind to terrorise me, only the warm Levante to caress my eyelids.
Here I shed my agonies. And memories of death are just respectable reminders of our transience. I sing, not howl, my story as a boatman that helped carry souls away. I wave goodbye to the tall, green shadow – we have not really seen each other for so long and now he’s going, gone away.
And when I walk into the theatre my usual seat at the front row is taken. I am not on stage exposed. It’s warm and dimly lit in cosy shades. I happily slot in the back between A and Ω, red stripes continue to embrace my body, and I don’t mind so many people turned their back on me. I am relieved and lighter we have moved on. And then a faceless you walks in from behind and softly puts your chin against mine, your arms rest naturally around my middle body.
I say: ‘ Welcome my love. Here you can wear your pounding red, warm singing heart with pride’.