Acatalepsy

1

            As the night sky slowly rose above the distant mountain tops, she watched the yellow and red streaks of light stream below her, cars like dancing ribbons in a river of dull gray. It was nothing like watching the white tide stroke the speckled shore­­ with sunrays piercing the wobbly surface of the sea. It was nothing like the feeling of the wind silently dancing through fields of wheatgrass and brushing over a bright, luminous ocean of rapeseed flowers, observing the bees and butterflies as they sprung from petal to petal to harvest the most succulent anthers they could find. Yet, from up on her seventh-floor balcony, she stood searching for something that would let her know that this is where she would find home.

The soft sound of syncopation rings through the street, reflecting off the concrete buildings. Doors and windows shut simultaneously down the city blocks––one by one until the only light left came from the dim street lamps that stood tall and humble on the sidelines––offering guidance to any passerby that needed it. The melody came from a small opening in the door of a small red jazz café called Casa Vita. Her bright yellow sunflower top––emitting a playful glow. The resonance lulled her in and she listened to the piano keys crying out in pain while the saxophone protested against the bass who just wanted to leave its troubles with the sun–and rollick under the stars. She resonated with each component––the tormented past, the stubbornness of future, but the intense desire to just be present in the moment.


This is something I conjured up as part of my final creative project for my Global Literature class. I haven’t been so inclined to write lately, which is a bummer. The will to create really does just ebb and flow in the mind. One minute you’re passionate and could write a thousand novels–but the next, you’re not even sure why you liked writing in the first place. Just for the sake of posting something, here’s this snippet.


adventures await, R

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