Wednesday, 14 August 2013

Rainbow Highways © by Irina Serban








What is home when I keep changing places? How boring it would be if I didn't, perhaps! Yet, we all have a place that feels like home. It's that place where I return to when I had enough of all the other places, and suddenly, feel contained in it.

I don't necessarily go there eagerly, happily, but mostly with curious, hesitant steps, for every time, the place looks different. The carpets lost colour. The drapes are out of date and yellowed by the passing of time. The furniture is old, squeaking and cracking at every touch. The walls, out of the blue, seem uneven. One of the chairs is left askew, at a distance from the table as if a hurried traveler jumped out of it and into the train bringing him towards new horizons. And I sit on it surrounded by memories that start unraveling at a tick tack speed. And I wonder: "How the hell is that annoying battery clock still working?" Tick-tack... Lub-dub... Tick-tack... Lub-dub... They speak the same language: that of our lives leaking out of us. With every tick, and with every lub! Clock and heart!

What have I accomplished since I left home? I grew older, my family grew larger in one place, diminished in another. Still the same cynical balance! I’m ticking away my days without knowing why I worry, get angry, get thrilled that much. What’s the use? The clock will still be ticking, the heart will still be beating. Or are they?

The rainbows. They are illusions that we make real. They have no beginning and no end. Yet, they are that drop of magic that lights up a rainy sky like a forgotten dew drop on a lonely flower.

Our lives' dreams are illusions that we can make real. They are there before us and will be there after us. They are the drop of magic that give meaning to our existence.

Wrinkled hands resting on the old table. Grey hair flowing on shrunken shoulders. Feet that have always taken up rainbow highways. One day, that home might contain only the chair left askew, at a distance from the table, dust and ashes. But the story written by the traveler who once sit there, annoyed at the ticking clock and the beating heart, will still exist, permeating someone's life, a life, which needs those words like breathing air.

One tick-tack at a time + One lub-dub at a time + One rainbow highway = Meaning to the illusion.


© Copyright 2013 Irina Serban. All rights reserved  


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