And as he kissed her soft cheek farewell upon her sea bound voyage, he walked with his head down looking at the cold, rain wet street, for he need not look at the wonderful sights of colourful lights and moving pictures, because he knew true beauty would not strike him twice that night.
What kind of a person must a film director train himself to be?
A white hunter, leading a safari into dangerous and unknown territory.
A psychoanalyst who keeps a patient functioning despite intolerable tensions, and stresses.
A hypnotist, who works with the unconscious to achieve his ends.
He has to have the cunning of a trader in a bagdad bizarre.
He must have the kindness of an old fashion mother who forgives all.
The sternness of her husband who forgives nothing.
The illusiveness of a jewel thief.
The blarney of a P.R. man.
Very thick skin. Very sensitive soul, simultaneously.
—A Letter To Elia
And I catch sight of myself in the water and see in the distortions of my face what I might become.
Know that you are my first and last thought of a day, and the dreams that fill in between.
Finger tips of rain
The wind draped them like a longed visit from the one you love. The tension cut down the middle by the man’s restless arm as an intoxicating feeling over came him. The man was happy, much happier than he has been for a while. He knows what the woman’s kiss tastes like, that indefinable taste of lust. Like a snakes poison it kills, yet knowingly without antidote, he longs for its sting. The man can smell rain now, but not just rain. The breeze passes the woman first and becomes richer on touch of her lips, becomes so much more precious on the touch of her skin, if only to him. Obliviously the woman’s scent mixes and becomes a fierce hybrid of calm and intensity. To the man, this smell could cure almost anything. It could make the world right and just, and no person would be able to prove to him otherwise. Hundred upon hundreds of raindrops seduce the window. The lucky few make it through the tiny gaps. Jealous onwards the man watches the woman shiver at the very idea of the rain touching her skin. He knew as if the rain had a preconceived trajectory, a destiny to land somewhere much more heavenly then it’s making, but no care was taken to close the window to stop it. Water mixed with old varnish runs down white walls. The sound of the woman’s breathing could be heard most prominent by the man. Along with the dripping and woodwind howls of the breeze, the room was filled with a symphony, a divine emotion only ment for him. It echoed around his wanting heart. The man knew if he allowed this music to play so deep in his chest that the echo would never die. It would do the exact opposite that an echo is ment to do. With every bounce off the tender walls, it would become louder and louder. Limitless in its bounds. But contradictions fill the air, and as the breeze dies down, the woman leaves. The echo now muffled between every raindrop and eventual splatter, but it did not die… just not played as sweet. It was missing something- his first chair violin, it’s harmonious depth. Now tainted by threatening sounds that haunted his home, the man wished for a trespasser, a trespasser to vent his unbridled, unpleasant frustration. But he is alone and no one enters with such disregard. So the man just sits, sits in the rain infused breeze. So beautiful and rich with the smell of disrupted dirt and cleansing. But this is an affair any man may obtain. He longs for the rains breeze that touched her lips, caressed her soft skin.
So the boy said “RAHH” to the lion, but the lion didn’t understand.
This was the end.
The story of the boy who got everything he ever wanted.
A fairy tale tells the story of a wooden boy being built with the conscious understanding that he is not real. he is given the one thing that makes what he desires true, but denies himself the pleasure of accepting it. his adventure chronicles his search for perfection, an exorcism of his own identity in hope of becoming like everyone else. his lies are only lies when he understands the truth and choses to neglect it. complexities may differ but we all have them, a boy now a man can long for something as a puppet longed for life. love is life. and like a puppet we each long for it, hung up on it, and will one day, if only for a day, curse it.
