( because the night belong to lovers,
because the night belong to us )
THE NIGHT IS THE VEIL BEHIND WHICH IMAGINATION DANCES FREELY, WITHOUT CHAINS OR LIMITS.”
(EDGAR ALLAN POE)
If during the day the memory remained trapped in the depths of the heart, and only small details, signs of daily life(an image, a sound, a word, a flower, a perfume, a colour) sent back the image of themselves to both their souls like a mirror, it was at night that they lived their stolen life on the too short stairs of a hospital in an instant that he wanted to be eternal.
Same place
Same time
Same dream
They were waiting there
That time in which it is no longer night, but it is not yet day, the courage, the audacity, the hope of that moment, where for an indefinite time everything
It is (still) possible.
He woke up with a start, those nightmares tormented him relentlessly since that night of snow and silence.
His eyes, those magnetic eyes of his, that sincere and spontaneous green look (it was as if he was laughing with his eyes) were moving further and further away, he chased her, chased that slender, strong figure on the stairs, and came to catch her, hugging her he hugged her, his arms wrapped around her waist, he leaned his chest against her back, he murmured the desire for an instant, for a time that would stop flowing, but the moment he released that hold and she turned to look at him, her eyes they were no longer his, they were the pitiful, blue eyes of the one who demanded his love with her gesture.
A gesture, it was all in a gesture, his, unfinished, in an unrestrained embrace.
He would wake up trembling and sweating every night in the solitude of his life, then he would open the window and look at that sky
There could have been a quilt of stars, the blackest darkness of the dark night, the light of the livid moon, the inconsolable crying of the clouds, the liberating energy of a storm, wind, thunder and lightning
Or the silent dance of that evanescent miracle, albeit real, of the white flakes that cloak everything.
But that sky, that night,
it was the same one looking at her.
IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THE LAST PERSON YOU THINK ABOUT AT NIGHT: THAT’S WHERE YOUR HEART IS. (CHARLES BUKOWSKI)
She opened her eyes wide and woke up with the sensation of suffocating, words that in the dream did not reach her lips. A scream that died in her throat, she breathed with difficulty, panting, as if re-emerging from an apnea that was too long. Like a drum beating on the head the words spoken by that voice that begged and demanded a due feeling.
In the silence, it was all in the silence of those words not said by her, silenced from the voice but imprinted in the heart.
Then he went out of the small back door, walked barefoot that short journey and went to seek peace on that hill… at the foot of the big tree, sometimes he climbed the branches to reach higher and turn his gaze to the sky, at that point which we call the horizon, a distant and unattainable point where however heaven and earth come together in an infinite embrace.
And the color of the night merged with a look that dug into her soul like a piece of glass.
But that sky, that night,
it was the same one he looked at.
BUT WHO ARE YOU THAT ADVANCED IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT YOU STUMP INTO MY MOST SECRET THOUGHTS? (WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)
They found each other there.
Neither of them knew.
Yet they both knew.
That infinite sky represented with its changes the emotions and feelings that tore their hearts. A blank canvas where every night a tireless painter painted a different picture. Using all the colors of the world, a painting, which however in all its most vivid nuances, demanded with a visceral cry, the existence of unfinished love
(Imagination, vain hope, dream.)
their thoughts linked by a thin thread intertwined in that non-place, tracing the boundaries of their world, impenetrable to others, where among prairies embroidered with fragrant daffodils, they let themselves be enraptured by the dance of their fragile, tenacious indissoluble love.
The gesture,
that gesture,
he who does not abandon that grip and held her in an infinite embrace,
the silence,
that silence,
she who broke him, a voice that rose from the heart and was released on his lips,
whispering those unspoken words.
And there,
only there,
there was fulfillment.
That reclaimed feeling, which like overflowing lava demanded to be freed, took shape and finally existed.
Sleeping, dying, maybe dreaming…
(All days are nights until I see you, and bright days are the nights when you appear to me in dreams
W.Shakespeare sonnet n°43)
(LilithPleiadeBia 2024)
Shadows New Trolls
Always looking, never
Finding
Your shadow in the darkness
Always looking, never
Finding
My shadow in the darkness
Wishing you were so close to me,
finding only my solitude.
Waiting for the sun to shine again
Finding that he has gone too far.
Dying, sleeping, perhaps dreaming.
Dying, sleeping, perhaps dreaming,
maybe dream, dream.
(Shadows -New Trolls 1971)
Disclaimer: This story is based on the original work of Kyoko Mizuki, whose copyrights are held by the author and publisher. I have no rights to the characters and story that I took from the original. There is no profit motive in this story, therefore it does not infringe on copyright.
