Plaster on the wall- where someone botched their attempt at perfection, that was all I could see, some crooked agency trying to cut corners, but in truth, the further I contemplated it, the more it began to make sense. The lady who was the caretaker of this building was Greek, a woman from Greece, whose family came here in search of a better life when she was just a girl, long before she lost her spirit. In ancient times her ancestors were masters of such creation, their strong but graceful Hellenic hands, carved many a masterpiece from simple white stone, into works of marvellous beauty, but somewhere along the way, hope gets drowned. It took a day like today for me to be able to have seen through her eyes, and to realize the mistake was not a mistake at all. In her frenzy to repair the spot on the wall, and to ready the apartment for new tenants, she had not consciously known what she was creating, for how could she? I have recently returned from my first trip to Greece. I spent two months in her homeland, and she would have loved to have heard all about it. She would have loved to try the many treats I brought back, and to have seen the souvenirs- a rare rock shaped like a tiny temple, found on an island, off the Aegean sea, and honey coloured like amber, with golden remnants of the sun sinking in it; but nature swallowed her under, because somewhere along the way, we all drown, and lately I have been contemplating such a fate. These days had passed with me trying to resurface. I had eaten only the most simple remnants of what could be found in this empty place, and I had not had a cigarette in days, and when I am without a cigarette, my nerves are like wires that get singed from lack of power, lack of fire, lack of vitality. I stared at the spot on the wall in a state of despondency and weakness. It's interesting how our own suffering can put us in touch with that of the world. I can't imagine what it must be like for people who never lack anything, but especially those who always have somewhere peaceful to sleep, and something to fill the void inside of them. I have always known lack, but it had been some time since we were acquainted. As I stared at this blotchy mess of plaster, this spot on the wall; an image stood out, an image of a frail woman, holding out her hands, the woman has her head down and her hands out, in a humble gesture, perhaps she is walking in alignment with the spirit, as opposed to the multitude of others here on earth, who are so deeply disconnected. What strikes me most is that she reminds me of a woman I love, a woman I traveled so many miles across the world to be with, and who I am now so distant from, she is frail like her, and her profile is strikingly similar, and isn't it strange that such beauty can arise out of such a mess, as a careless spot on the wall, and that most people would view it as a mistake, and never see the real beauty in it? It takes suffering to elicit empathy and a keen vision of the world, but it also takes suffering to wake us up to the true depths of beauty, which we are all drowning in.
