mandala nr.1

It was quite unusual to stand at those heights, even more remarkable to defy gravity naked. 

She’s always been fond of street markets mostly on account of their round scent armouring loud colours. 

Between the eggplants and the chestnuts, his voice scattered the curtains of her absent mind. A grave tone, mild, without passion. She tried to figure his face out before looking behind. She thought he would be a man with arched back from sustaining his age, probably widowed even if his wife still presents dinner on a tightly delicious schedule, even if they still sit together in the same room or keep a shared bed. There was a reverberant sadness related to departures. Maybe he had bronze skin, the biggest heritage he kept from his navy days and perhaps he reads about voyages; otherwise why would he sound so distant or wavy? Looking back she blushed upon her assumptions. Decidly tall, certainly made of ebony, young enough to spend life together, he was carved out her wishes. Sounding old was due to ancient thoughts kept in her memoir waiting for someone like him. She would leave Portugal in a snap if that pirate found her golden heart. He took it. No resistance was shown. 

They built a realm far away where verdant landscape and soothing heat settled camp. Today, on top of a colossal rock giving to the Atlantic, alone with the ocean, they are jumping. It would be corny and accurate to compare this to a rebirth of two, silently delivered by love rather than passion. Why is it so exceptional to long for the deepest breath and dive?

the Concrete Observer #6