Not during the day when a tree in no other colours than green burns. On a humid night, the leaves – being two-faced – switched and betrayed its colour again like the chameleonic sky. Not bothered about the routine beauty of dusk, not fascinated with the palette of its clouds. Over-praised, over-painted, over-photographed.
It was hot not warm. You saw some middle-aged men praying publicly, half-naked, for the false respite of rain. You heard some young educated women making speeches, promising the party would change the weather. You thought they should shut up, pair up and find a hotel. The images of tropical beach resort posters from postcards and tour agencies crossed your mind.
While irritated by how eloquent and witty one could be, or fail to be, their use of certain words (such as ‘hope’, ‘belief’, ‘faith’, ‘care’, ‘future’, ‘change’ with words like ‘wish’, ‘unwind’, ‘relax’, ‘dream’, ‘holiday’, ‘plans’) either made you yawn or gave you goose bumps.
After the rain, the dark woods with dark leaves are wet – weighing a bit more. You kicked on the bits and stepped on the pieces, fallen from the trees, littering the concrete pavement. You thought about some snails you have killed. You picked and collected the twigs and sprigs as materials for a miniature park in a trite dystopia. You planted a branch as a bare tree, and related it to the tarnished name ‘Art’ and the ugly word ‘Design’.
No comments:
Post a Comment