It’s so crispy quiet here. I rest my hand just as I rest my colourless thoughts. The only breaker of the silence is the murmur of a conversation. The one that we are having in my head. I’m borrowing your words and adding mine to sentences of yours.
Relaxed and calm I watch the ashes fall so gracefully on the floor. Your motivation, like if by magic of the fairy-dust, has woken up unchartered waters of imagination. The vivid one, that’s running wild.
It’s burning. Smoking hot. More ashes on the ground, more words, that grow in quantity in the enormous speed of time. The sentences pile up like powder on the floor. The pattern of the conversation changes, the accents merge, fusing together.
It will burn down. With sizzling sound and rising smoke. To the very end, where all that’s left will be the empty grip of my hand and traces on the floor. Like an intact reminder of those words that we seesaw between us. That went up in flames.
Emotions stripped bare naked. No more mystery of the uncovered secrets. In shades of black and white. The choice is there, to merge it into daily mush of grey or paint the colours back again.
– Chatty Owl has left the building –