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In the heart of an old town

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Zurich (Switzerland), 11.36 am

In the heart of an old, forgotten town, things are alive. Happy. Touched. Loved. Embraced. Cared for. Brimming with intensity. Giddy with passion. Things surrendering themselves to their own arrival. Things that always pulsate with life. Moments that believe they are immortal. Thoughts that wear damask florals and cachinnate in thin air. Walls painted in the autumnal colours of wine, plum and ink. Sunrays dancing in the stream. Love like an aching knot in the stomach. A palpable heartache with a name on it.

In the heart of the old, forgotten town, everything is alive. There is no hurry to resolve scrambly madness. Memories do not fret over prejudiced passersby. About people who sigh and walk away. About men who peep into life telling lies. Moment that refuses to spare a second thought to sidewalkers. Life that does not take another look at the confused prism.

The heart of an old, forgotten town resonates with her laughter. The hush of her footsteps. The lilt of her beating heart. In the tony house with walls painted in autumnal colours, she sits in the verandah knitting while the muffin puffs in the oven. By the fireplace, she lies on her belly and plays Scrabble. On the grass, she sways on the Chippendale and watches the dragonfly prance. And when winter comes, she waits for the mist to crawl into her room. She teasingly lets her breath rise in misty whorls. And loses herself in the frosty haze.

In the heart of an old, forgotten town, things are alive. Life hastens slowly. And the heart beats in whispers. There are no faulty diskettes in the mind. Pigeons do not get roasted on skewers. Men do not look at life through a macho hubris. Strangers have no tawdry motives. And everyone deserves a dream.

The heart of an old, forgotten town has no periphery. It loves. Everyone.


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