Monday, March 16, 2015

Shiny Bay

The waters were glimpsing and reflecting the sunlight. It could blind your eyes, it could make you dizzy. We were standing on some small rock hills. Checking the waters, our cameras, the films we were carrying. The rocky shore had a gray, magnetic color, shimmering through the hot sun above us. It couldn't be more than 22 degrees, but the sudden appearance of spring made us all stifling in our winter clothes. 

The walk we did to get to the "Shiny Coast", as Jane was calling it proudly, was long and breathtaking. Lines of green and yellow mountains ahead of us. Rocky hills jutted out of the landscape like ant holes in the ground on warm days. They were calling the travelers it seemed. Calling in an unfamiliar, peculiar way. Like silent sirens in the dark, hollow forms of a strange power. This power was what dragged us here in the first place. We have read on a not-so-famous travel blog about the walkabouts of young travelers in these areas and we immediately started organizing it. Weeks passed till our trip could become a reality. Excitement was feeding our hearts. And one Monday we started, just the three of us. 

The town we needed to reach was 6 miles away from this gorgeous destination called "Shiny Bay". And now we were there wandering around with our analogue cameras, without any mobile phones, just ourselves. We arrived at noon and after we had discovered the whole area, we decided to stay overnight, building our tents a little farther. We had our little camp ready when we tried to gather some wood for later to light up a fire. Food was already solved with canned beans and some pork, along with the sandwiches that managed to survive the route. 

We were overwhelmed by the beauty of this place, all of us. Jane had a small Pinhole camera, made by an old Olympus, Mike used his old Nikon and I was trying to find a decent way to get good Polaroid pictures along with an old Leica. All of us with a different mission in our heads. All of us drifting away in problems that now looked like lost morning dreams. Boarding on a future only a camera could imprison. Living a present through travel intensity and nature enticements. Experience life in its greatest extent. 

We all had left something behind, we all pretended that this trip would change us for the better. The only thing we kept ignoring was that we could not just escape reality so easily. In the glimpse of the moment yes we could and we would. While we all got aroused by the warmth and the atmospheric mist in the shore, we started craving for a swim. Maybe in a way of cleansing our own past, forgetting our own selves and diving into a new form of reality. That of stillness. The mark of an era that was just beginning. We lured ourselves in the fresh water, wearing nothing but our underwear, swimming into life itself. It was real and intense. It was a moment frozen in time, a moment we will all share and cherish forever. Being Alive. 

This text is part of Picture Challenge, a writing challenge I started by creating short stories out of random pictures I would find online. The text is a product of my imagination, entirely inspired by the accompanied picture. 

(Picture found on Pinterest, source unknown)

Monday, March 2, 2015

Ο Γέρος

Γέρος και μόνος
με τα ροζιασμένα χέρια του
για παρέα
και η τρέλα του
μόνιμη συγκάτοικος_

Τα γέλια των άλλων
δεν τον πειράζουν,
ίσως και να μην τα καταλαβαίνει_

Τα δάκρυα της λύπης
όμως τα νιώθει
βαθιά και, ναι,
κάπως άχαρα
προχωρεί προς τα μπρος
ζητά για βοήθεια,
θυμάται έναν αριθμό,
τον λόγο μάλλον
τον έχει ξεχάσει
και σαν νέος πλέον
μονολογεί για όσα
δεν υπάρχουν πια_

Δυο λέξεις θυμάται
αργεί να απαντήσει
Καλώ τον αριθμό
δεν απαντάει,
ο γέρος μονολογεί -
ναι ένα ταξί παρακαλώ
για το κέντρο της πόλης
εδώ είναι μαζί μου_

Μα το συγγνώμη
δεν το νιώθει
και χάνεται
μέσα στην οδύνη
της ζωής του,
στην επανάληψη
του σκηνικού που
 - μάλλον -
τον έχουν ξεχάσει_

Κάποιες φορές
τον θυμάμαι
και ζηλεύω
το κενό του μυαλό.
Ίσως αν τον ξαναδώ
να τον ευχαριστήσω
για όλα όσα μου έμαθαν
τα αδιάφορα μάτια του. 

Βίκυ Γρίβα