Sometimes, I love you. Those times are when birds sing in the sky, and when the sky is a deep blue, and when alone in some forbidden city, trying to write a postcard to a familiar place and face, clinging to an imaginary umbilical cord. Those are times when money comes easily, when food is on the table (hot, steaming, tasty), when the car runs perfectly, perfect mileage and shiny license plates. Those are the times when the songs that are sung come out completely in tune, and the guitar strings plucked are clear and straight, the arrows shot cuts the apple in two.
But I hate you sometimes. And I hate the way the clouds stick to clothes, and how sun is bitten away by darkness. And when the trees lose their leaves. And when the leaves grow back again. And when skin stretches, taut, over faces that don’t smile anymore because there is no reason to. Hands that are tired and shaking from exhaustion. Fear, toxin, exhileration.
I do not really want to be associated with you. But things that remain facts, are. And that is all.
In case you were wondering, this is all about my love-hate relationship with my favourite colour, the Colour Pink. I call it: loveletter to a colour. I wanted to explore the amount of feeling one could put into a seemingly “trivial” matter. Nice, no? Now, if only I could be less of a smartass and more of a person…
Umbilical cord musings
I really like umbilical cords, because …okay, it was a secret but I guess I have to tell you that…(whispers) I was born with one. And another secret: you were, too (most likely).
Please! Recover from the shock of this stunning revelation!
I didn’t have it for a long time as the doctor so rudely cut it a few minutes after I was born. Anyway, I never really thanked my mum for lending me all that air and food space when I was renting in her tummy. Are umbilical cords cut just so we can get lovely navel piercings when we reach the age of rebellion?
Balance
The other day we went ice skating; the most fun I’ve had in days. I’m not an expert but I manage not to fall when my feet are slightly above ground. I’ve got a good sense of balance, when it comes to these things. Maybe it’s because I’m closer to the center of gravity. I used to be able to turn cartwheels while wearing roller skates when I was around eight or nine. I could even skate backwards. Christ, I was cool then. What happened to me? Why am I reduced to writing loveletters to colours and speculating about umbilical cords? My secret wish is to be an X-Gamer, rollerblade category, but I’ve never rollerbladed enough.
Weakness weakens
‘A sure sign of things to come. Weakness can be a strength’. I made that up, I wrote that, thinking that irony is clever.
Maybe in a way, like I said, weakness can be a strength, especially when it boils down to the facts of life. That we can never really be strong, with what we love. That we cling to them lovingly. That we are shattered, with or without them. Colours. Or umbilical cords. Take your pick.
