Mr
Masumi's Thought
«There
is something slippery about words, once
they're written, their gleam...»
was
abruptly interrupted as his feet immersed in the basin's salty water
-the warmth eradicating from his toes to his upper legs, reaching
just below the pelvic region -
and
later while his body adapted to the touch of the masseuse, those
vertical feelings, safely distant as ceiling flecks behind mist.
«
however sweet, this blindness might kill as gravity »
Her
hands gloomed in oil. His body stilled his head under the flat of her
hands, became a narrow shadow of him self. There was room for
silence, though in between far off noises arrived at him with
augmented physical perception.
«
parallel water flowing down the walls, slowly filling the landscape »
On
the way back home, he sat by the window, engaging in the late
afternoon traffic. Buses hurried by, among small cars, dogs and
bicycle carts. People cued on sidewalks, waiting upon their turns.
His mind felt idle, sweat drops began falling.
«
the same about faces, the way we look and bring forth certain lines,
measures, relations, ignoring others, inducing deception »
He
noticed a young woman and her child had taken the place up his front,
the evidence of life making it all so irrelevant – his thoughts
against breasts and lips were nothing - a mere record of the
journey's log.
©
2016, José Coelho
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