Simone

In my opinion an artist should attempt to reflect their own life, feelings, experiences and emotions and the way they tie in with current society. Sometimes to evoke change, sometimes to highlight differences, always to tell a story.

I’m sorry that I haven’t posted too much but you all know that the first instalment won’t be the last..I’m working on it :D  Can’t wait to share with you.

Don’t let me be misunderstood – Nina Simone

XVII. Dreaming Hour

His bedroom sat five shelters high above Rainbow. A window to the world. He would shove his arms through the slated wood and light a cigarette (Mr Avedias finest). Sunrise reminded him of Abia. Calming, sensually sweet but by nature naive, always posing questions and always desiring answers.

Tariq had lived life long enough to know that not all questions were answered. Why was pana with seeds and nutmeg cheaper than plain bread? How did they fit those tiny boats in tiny bottles? Why is it that we hurt most those we love?

Before bright light awoke the world Tariq would feel most settled. A population silenced in slumber, this was his dreaming hour. His thoughts free to run and all possibilities unrestrained. The golden hues quietened his internal quarrels, blinded his pride and flooded his ego. Only the days tasks lay before him, which he had learned to be a lot easier for a man lightened of such terminal traits.

This morning, the sky rose in blackened tones and reality dawned upon Tariq. His eyes dipped into a murky pit of purple his thoughts would not settle, and he found no ease.  He had known this day would come, when explanation would surpass him and instead, the complexity of change would attain a voice all of it’s own. His own held at ransom.

Deep in his chest he could feel it, rising and falling with urge to burst out and duty to stay hidden. A secret he had kept, a truth he had buried.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town

IX. Freedom

Three days passed. Two skies fallen.
Tariq and Abia sat underneath the last.
Perched on the Eastern point. The highest peak of the city.
The very tip-top, they stared up, making shapes out of the stars.

Abia’s eyes played dot to dot. A flower garden bloomed in carnations and roses and dutch amaryllis. Her mind filled in all the colours of their petals. Lillies floated on water the color of shinny onyx. It was a simple vision, a beautiful one. Since arriving to the favela she had not seen one plant. From the boat she remembered Red oaks and Paperback Maples, but they grew on the outskirts.

Tariq spoke and the colours ran.

“Look over there” he said pointing south easterly.
“Beyond the represas de agua (water dams), where the moonlight hits that circular tower of redbrick. That is the ciudad (city). That is where Merolas ends and freedom begins.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town