The years. The dust. The shadow. Not seen a single ray of sunlight for decades and hidden behind sacks of unread book piles. The closet covered in pale wall papers. Pale rosy wall papers.
It enters your nostrils and crosses through your throat to reach your stomach and you can taste the odour. It is sour and sharp.
You immediately hate every inch of it.
First you have to hate it.
The fingers, the touch, the blouse, the smell of the wooden closet which hasn’t been opened for years. It’s a place where things are kept secret behind the doors, or maybe it’s an elephant in the room.
Outside of these rosy wallpapers opens a flower. It ripens as It’s petals open widely in front of the cool breeze it receives, shivering every inch of the body. The petals are caressed and carefully stroked to be fully watered in a matter of seconds. It grows in glamour ready to be picked. It releases its finest smell and covers all the surrounding dusts with its aromatic enchantment. Its time has come.
You love it.
You cannot not love it.
It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.
Eventually, on her last breath, she solidifies.
featured image credits to: http://tenka.seiha.org/images3/k6/6.jpg
She gave it one last look. Walked down the corridor to the door while Brushing the dust on the shelves with her fingers. Although it burned her from inside, she couldn’t stop to look behind her shoulder, because she knew the rule; she would turn into a pillar of salt. The challenge was to step out of the door with a smile on her face and sprinkle of love in her soul.
She didn’t look back, nevertheless she went into the labyrinth of the rooms. She went into one room which led to the garden, the garden led to the kitchen, the kitchen led to the dining room, the dining room led to the balcony, the balcony led to the bedroom… She was running from one door to the other, forward always, but never in progress. She found herself at point A. Where it all began.
These doors trap.
Finally, exhausted, she took the paint, colored the door with bright white, drew a window instead, unlocked the window with her pen and threw herself out.
I cross the curtain to sit on the parquet floor putting the soles of my feet together and holding them in my palms. I start moving my knees up and down to be part of the individual warming ups taking place on the floor. I look around and enjoy watching my shadow enlarged on the opposite wall, where photos of dancers cut from black and white newspapers are plastered. My shadow tangles with other peoples’ shadows once one of the choreographers comes forward and tells us to walk around the dance floor in order to become acquainted with the space.
Continue reading “When Bodies Contest the Space”