mergh

Color is victimized around every corner, and every concrete brick weighs down on the soul. Nothing seems to flow; nothing seems to exist of its own accord, but rather out of the will of some bitter torn dream which wishes to exact an equivalent revenge on everything that it can reach. The words written in graffiti in the walls that line the streets are numb remembrances of sounds that used to be ideas and now are nothing but empty shells of pleas. Nothing seems to scream. Nothing seems to resist the coming and going of smoke bells that won’t ring anymore. Every single remnant of what makes a place be able to breathe is absent. An absence that little by little gnaws my skin raw. Just as my throat is choked on smoke and my eyes burn with the colorlessness.

The windows, the doors, the paint on the walls. People’s clothes and people’s eyes. Their voices and their hands. They all seem sucked dry, washed out, bleached out of any real substance of color and sweetness, leaving behind nothing but the faint whisper of life, the resigned routines that people lead once they’ve given up on life.

Little, faint shimmers of hope blur in and out of existence. In a back alley where flower garlands are hung up on Christmas and the steps of the poor mark the inviting doors. In a canyon in the city, where the concrete boxes, handicapped and mutilated, reveal a universe of misery. Beautifully superior to the numbness of the rest of the city.


And then the scenes flash past, ethereal and not substantial or strong enough to remain in memory more than a few instants.