Deaf Splash of Growth



I’m feeling full today, I can’t stomach any food, so I’m making a soothing warm soup, plenty pumpkin, squash, turnips, carrots, beets, a little ginger and a handful of fresh minced mint. The sizzling hot day turned the roads and sidewalks into radiators, the air is thick and hot at eight pm. As I sip on an icy cup of ginger tea the soup is cooking and the water is reaching boiling point, foaming, lifting the lid, while in the sink water is dripping, from the tap that needs fixing and its constant dripping sets my teeth on edge. It took only one drop splashing on the already large pool formed by the leakage, splashing into a few more droplets, to send me back to the time when I believed whatever would happen then would shape my whole life. Whatever happened before and after I realised the truth didn’t shape the rest of my life, whatever happened on those blissful days spent in hidding, in young love didn’t define me –  that’s the story.

It was, after all, young love, utter and unnerving short sighted bliss, that encouraged me to spend my days in longing, waiting for my lover to come back, parting ways at the train station and staying close for when the time came up being faithfully there to walk back home together. That last day I wondered ‘round the valley and up the ridges in Sintra, I still know the trails by hand, all of them. I had the camera with me, as well as bag with books, water and fruit. As the day progressed, the cartridge filled up with photos, the bag filled up with flowers I had been collecting and the books remained untouched.

At dawn, I sat nearby the train station, at an oddly crowded location. I could see the house in the valley from the belvedere, I dreamt about the future living there, grazing the wild flower bouquet resting on my lap. Famished and thirsty, could barely hold myself, there was still no sign, no familiar grin surfaced from the hasty croud getting out of the train. The night rose quickly and damp, with a thin coat of fog which soaked up the tragedy in alluring gusts of heavy, bleak, perfumed wind.

I was left alone and I knew already then wallowing in loneliness was not on my plans so I left alone and dropped the flowers in a sort of shy gesture.

Today I’m a little faint from both the heat brought by summer and all my loving and affection, having a little bit of a weak stomach from loving deeply and having nothing even remotely as heavenly to treat myself with, spending my days writing endless love letters with everything I do, fueled by it, sipping on unimaginable quiet.

By the fountain, at the ridge, I took a while to absorb the nature around me, just sit down and listen. The water flowed dully and silent from the canals to the fountain. Only the sound of the drops from the water dully and almost criteriously splashing on the rocks dripping on the wavering water could be heard. I spent the night.