I walk into the kitchen of my soul searching for something new. Or something old. I crave a sense of the beauty of the old. The old that permeates peacefully into the mind soothing its obsessions and guiding its illusions back home. A fantasy. A legend. A million-years-old legend to dance with me at midnight.
Is it rust? Is it pallor? Is it dust? What is it that I crave so vehemently? That color of colorlessness painting the sound of silence in a surreal realm of reality. A sense of the old and the beautiful. A scent of nostalgia magnificently empowered with intense mania. Simply, something old. What is that? Where can I get it?
I rummage through the wooden cupboards of my memory but find nothing of such wonderful nature. My memory is a few years old and captures nothing of my desires, it merely stores bagatelles of commonness and ordinariness. I must look for a special scent of overwhelming euphoria mixed with powders of novelty and stupor. What is that? Where can I get it?
I walk around examining the pots and pans of my past. They’re standing silently in utmost perfection; divinity. The past is the most divine time of all times. Unlike the present for the present is swifter than the blink of an eye and invisible like the unknown and trembles away instantly. The past is eternal, immortal, and omnipresent. Unlike the future for the future sparkles with hopes and plans but sulks over its own uncertainty and tormenting possibility of crashing death at any moment. Unlike anything else, the past lives on; eternally, as old as the world yet blooming as ever. The past shines within. The past dances with dreams and fantasies, painting the mind with miraculous shades of hysteria, awakening the heart with flying mysteries unsolved forever. The past…
I still can’t find it. It’s nowhere to be found in this dump of a soul. Where is it? Will I ever find it?
Is it possible? Is it possible to procure this rarity? Is it possible to crave an imagined possibility? Is it possible to desire surreal beauty amidst a fiery ferocious reality? Is it possible? Is it?
It is. It must be. I am craving. I am desiring. It must be possible. It must be. It is.
It suddenly strikes me. I run towards the window and break it open. The shards of glass scream and scatter suicidally yet gracefully everywhere. The gushing wind ambushes the kitchen from outside unleashing the secrets of storms and hurricanes into my soul. The black and white leaves of mango trees crawl inside the kitchen precariously watching for their steps among the shards of glass. The air, the scene, the sounds, everything radiates with exuberance. The deafening atmosphere resuscitates my memory. Decades of life rapidly race into me; overflowing. I suddenly know where to find the ingredients. I choose to stand still for longer moments, enjoying the caressing breeze as it hugs my heart revitalizing its once lost beat, enjoying the fondling wind as it plays the symphony of my mind passionately. My mind doesn’t keep track of the entity of time and the moments become infinite voyages into the wild forests of perfume and enchantment. But my heart beats longingly for the exotic recipe knowing that my mind finally captures it within. As I delve into the oceans of profound anoesis, the depth overtakes my soul and it becomes a wonderland of cerulean pulsating with waves of pumped blood and emotion from my heart. The scene is diffused with beatific hues of scarlet. I awaken from the trance as the trance awakens me.
I head for the maze of book shelves. I count twelve shelves from the bottom and reach for the antique golden box at the back corner. The golden box is smothered with glimmering dust particles, something old. The dust particles shine in their own antiquity reminding me of past glories. I blow the dust particles off the golden box and they dance with the air particles around my head; a magnificent waltz. The golden box is no longer golden. After blowing away its glowing dusty disguise, its nudity is exposed, an old rusty nudity; truthful. Another old thing, the rust coating the box with all of its carved peculiarities. I open the box slowly and momentarily the scent of ages long gone escapes, glimmering golden butterflies flutter away. The intoxicating scent of old times and truths and things. I look into the box and notice the crimson velveted interior, I see the red velvet curtain opening and the reverbating musical cue marking the beginning of the tragic play. I listen to the box and revel in its treaures. I find a locket with an enclosed gray photo of a young girl with a single braid sleeping on her right shoulder, a ticking pocket watch with a rusty chain, two withered brown leaves delicately hidden within a fragrant dusty handkerchief, and finally a bottle of black ink. It all makes sense inexplicably. The cold sensation I feel when my fingers touch the ink bottle accompanied with the ticking of the pocket watch, harmonizing the cool, clothed in the penetrating smell of the withered leaves provides the ambrosial setting for the young girl with the braid to sing.
My heart rejoices jubilantly. My mind bows victoriously. My soul is at peace.