When the light writes down its stories in the scratched walls of an underrated place,
Never seen before although quite familiar
And you feel that some poetry is hidden in those layers of shadows and colours
And you try to decipher it and understand it and grab it
As if it were a rare gem of precious memories coming from a forgotten land.
Memories never revealed before
Now offered as an undeserved prize to the wrong guy
And you face those colours, and you face those shadows, and try to collect their meanings and shy half-truths
Try to explore the possibilities and the different interactions, possibly a reason to the entire story or even a clue to enter a new perspective disguised in the first superficial layer
So, you stare at the wall, hold your breath, sense your heart beating faster, cancel the world around
Count the time now slowed down, pray for an answer, seek for the key to understand, to unlock the gates of the hidden garden
But nothing turns out to be real,
just a jammed experience of attempts to put names and rules where there are not.
Disappointment is the word now
And for a moment you look away, your eyes elsewhere, your mind detached.
A moment, not more.
And when you turn around again, nothing is there anymore.
Faded away, forever
Assuming it ever existed.
Stories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths.