house which seemed as vast as the whole world, I used to play
hide and seek with childish mirth, ride on a swing with delight,
slide down a chute and mischievously hide myself from my mother and
father with boundless thrill. I used to climb up, not unlike a
yellow balloon, the fig tree at the end of our garden, breathe in
gulp of fresh air from the deep blue sky and then smoothly slide
through my dreams down to earth.
none of those small joys remain.
inextricable entanglements with shades and shadows and with greys
rooted in our hearts prevail.
whenever I reach out for the sweetest memories of places and times I
find nothing more tangible than a murky haze, I only see a dear one
who atrophied, drop by drop, and, when gone, left me with an
assortment of black and white photos and negatives that related
metamorphosis of her body until her death.
with those memorabilia I, as though in a trance, create a tree and a
doll with a big grey dress, subconsciously yearning for something to
germinate and blossom out of it so that, perhaps, it would enable me
to recreate my dreams and soar to new heights.