داستان از اونجایی شروع شد که هر کدوم از ماها مجموعه ای از تمامی لحظاتی هستیم که با تمام آدم هایی که تا به حال شناختیم، تجربه کردیم. پس بهتره به هر آدمی فرصت بدیم، بشناسیم و تجربه کنیم تا مجموعه ای از لحظات خوب رو داشته باشیم.
My feet left the ground as I tried to hold the yellow bird in between my palms.
They never told me they can cage what I can't perceive in a blink, sitting near the window, looking out at bones clad in loose clothes amidst green fields.
I got off at a station, my feet sank in a layer of water as my suitcase dripped. I saw them with their magnifying glasses and I raised my wine glass to them. Their raincoats dried out in their balconies and I painted my window a deep sea green.
I chose to walk, I drank my coffee and wrote in my diary of a woman whose distressed face refused to leave my body in the numerous mornings I had spent looking at the mirror. They read their newspapers but their eyeline never matched their newspaper's.
When I chose to stay, the home crumpled slowly but surely and I pressed my palms tighter.
I shut the doors and hissed at every knock, jumped at every voice. I didn't bury the poor bird. I let her bleed at the doorstep. Turned out the others in there liked the combination of red and yellow.
I got on the road again, the sun was high up against my face. I swallowed my spit, walked on my heel when my toes ached. Mirages never proved to be good mirrors.
Slowly, I made my way to a man with a turban on, sitting beneath the palm tree. He placed his pocket knife on my palm. He slapped me when I tried to squeeze the blade. I walked again. I never liked the colour red.
Soon, I was at a bus stand. I boarded it. A woman gave me some water. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, it cried in crimson. I closed my eyes and tried to pick all of the yellow feathers in my head. But the blood kept hiding them.
I looked out again, the barricades staring right back at me.
I wonder if anyone else sees them.