I read the letter to myself over and over again on the bench in the park that was pushed into the Earth next to the river, perfectly shaded by the gorgeous weeping willow that was in full bloom. The wind blew by from time to time, the tree's graceful, long arms sweeping to and fro.
I sat in that very spot listening for hours upon hours to the hushing and gurgling of the river for a few hours, reading and rereading, contemplating and imagining. And I cried. The words were figures, slowly twirling and leaping about the park, gliding across the river. I could reach out and touch each word, feel the warmth, the sting, the wetness. Each figure I touched provoked streams from my eyes, provoked a stinging in the over flowing pools. They circled the bench, climbed the willow, splashed in the water, taunting my brain. And yet I stayed put to study each form, for they were not intangible, but instead very real. Like black hieroglyphics, they moved across the grass in no particular order, taking over the land around me, slowly, yet like rapid fire with balletic movements. The chaos caught my eyes, it hypnotized me. The shapes were intriguing especially with the patterns that my mind created from them. I was mesmerized as I sat there staring at the words that had come to life.
And somewhere in that time, that incredible retreat, my eyes had decided to cleanse themselves. The tears, they poured out of me just the way the waterfall of colored emotions flowed out of Iliana. And as they poured, I begged the God that I don't believe in for mercy. Oh, how I begged that late spring afternoon. The pain that the beautiful dancing figures implanted in my chest was not completely unbearable, but just under that. The pain was just to the point where if there was anymore, I would not be able to live with it, but yet I could. So I begged and pleaded with a power which I had once grown to believe to be fake. I had had no intention of spending my whole afternoon alone, on that bench, on the far side of the park. The tan I acquired was unintentional as well. My stroll had turned for the worse the second I saw that small purple bottle floating down the stream, bobbing, turning, nodding at me.
I remember clearly feeling an attraction to the glass container, it was beautiful. But more than that, it was as if the bottle wanted me to lift it from the current, it was calling me. So I lowered myself and reached my arm out. I didn't have to try to catch the bottle, it came to me. That was the moment I saw the folded up paper, bent and contorted to fit, behind the purple, iridescent bottle. Instinctively, I sat on the wrought iron and wooden bench and twisted the small cork out. I couldn't help but feel that I was in some scene from a show or movie, going to release something epic, about to witness all the consequences of this moment of curiosity, both good and bad. Half of this assumption was correct, the half about me reaping the consequences. The epic part? Not so much.
That was when I found myself slipping the paper out. Don't ask me how, because still, to this day, I have no idea how my large fingers fit into the extremely tiny mouth of that bottle. The letter and myself had a pull to each other of some sort. That's all I can come up with. I moved like a zombie, in a trance, unfolding the paper to the realization that it was a letter. I remember getting as comfortable as I could on the bench in the gentle sun, listening to the music that the wind, willow tree, river, and birds all made for me.
And I read.
I read the letter that was written in the most beautiful script anyone has ever seen. Not one paragraph went by without the provocation of my tears. That was how I came to spend that whole Sunday afternoon on a bench, in a park, by the river, under the willow, with the sun, and a wonderful tan to go with my puffy, red eyes.
The thing was, I could not get that woman's words out of my head. They spun around and around my skull reminding me of all the emotion that was jam-packed into the letter. Maybe it was too much for me and I went into shock for those hours, since I can't remember everything that went through my mind for those long hours. Or maybe I only thought a few things, that, like Iliana's words, circled around in my mind continuously.
I sat in that very spot listening for hours upon hours to the hushing and gurgling of the river for a few hours, reading and rereading, contemplating and imagining. And I cried. The words were figures, slowly twirling and leaping about the park, gliding across the river. I could reach out and touch each word, feel the warmth, the sting, the wetness. Each figure I touched provoked streams from my eyes, provoked a stinging in the over flowing pools. They circled the bench, climbed the willow, splashed in the water, taunting my brain. And yet I stayed put to study each form, for they were not intangible, but instead very real. Like black hieroglyphics, they moved across the grass in no particular order, taking over the land around me, slowly, yet like rapid fire with balletic movements. The chaos caught my eyes, it hypnotized me. The shapes were intriguing especially with the patterns that my mind created from them. I was mesmerized as I sat there staring at the words that had come to life.
And somewhere in that time, that incredible retreat, my eyes had decided to cleanse themselves. The tears, they poured out of me just the way the waterfall of colored emotions flowed out of Iliana. And as they poured, I begged the God that I don't believe in for mercy. Oh, how I begged that late spring afternoon. The pain that the beautiful dancing figures implanted in my chest was not completely unbearable, but just under that. The pain was just to the point where if there was anymore, I would not be able to live with it, but yet I could. So I begged and pleaded with a power which I had once grown to believe to be fake. I had had no intention of spending my whole afternoon alone, on that bench, on the far side of the park. The tan I acquired was unintentional as well. My stroll had turned for the worse the second I saw that small purple bottle floating down the stream, bobbing, turning, nodding at me.
I remember clearly feeling an attraction to the glass container, it was beautiful. But more than that, it was as if the bottle wanted me to lift it from the current, it was calling me. So I lowered myself and reached my arm out. I didn't have to try to catch the bottle, it came to me. That was the moment I saw the folded up paper, bent and contorted to fit, behind the purple, iridescent bottle. Instinctively, I sat on the wrought iron and wooden bench and twisted the small cork out. I couldn't help but feel that I was in some scene from a show or movie, going to release something epic, about to witness all the consequences of this moment of curiosity, both good and bad. Half of this assumption was correct, the half about me reaping the consequences. The epic part? Not so much.
That was when I found myself slipping the paper out. Don't ask me how, because still, to this day, I have no idea how my large fingers fit into the extremely tiny mouth of that bottle. The letter and myself had a pull to each other of some sort. That's all I can come up with. I moved like a zombie, in a trance, unfolding the paper to the realization that it was a letter. I remember getting as comfortable as I could on the bench in the gentle sun, listening to the music that the wind, willow tree, river, and birds all made for me.
And I read.
I read the letter that was written in the most beautiful script anyone has ever seen. Not one paragraph went by without the provocation of my tears. That was how I came to spend that whole Sunday afternoon on a bench, in a park, by the river, under the willow, with the sun, and a wonderful tan to go with my puffy, red eyes.
The thing was, I could not get that woman's words out of my head. They spun around and around my skull reminding me of all the emotion that was jam-packed into the letter. Maybe it was too much for me and I went into shock for those hours, since I can't remember everything that went through my mind for those long hours. Or maybe I only thought a few things, that, like Iliana's words, circled around in my mind continuously.
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