In the mess of my thoughts, I stumbled upon an open book, its pages as blank as the canvas of a yet-to-be-painted masterpiece. Within its untouched expanse, I saw the perfect silhouette of an airplane, a phantom etched in the parchment, a surreal dream cradled within the confines of reality.

The clouds, those ethereal guardians of the sky, heaved with the weight of unshed rain, parting reluctantly to reveal a place, a center, a wish. It was a sanctuary, a haven where I gathered the musky scents of forgotten memories and remnants of clothes strewn across the floor.

In the silence, I unearthed smothered words, hidden like coins lost in the sands of time. I held onto these tokens, devoid of any worth, yet priceless in their existence. They were the embers of a flawless fire, a beacon illuminating the path to the root of a deep wound.

I embraced the exquisite pain, the heady anger that surged from within the open book, a torrent of emptiness that threatened to consume me. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, I found solace, a sense of purpose that steadied my trembling heart.

In a vision, I watched as the perfect shadow of the plane dissolved into nothingness, the clouds once more heaving, grunting, and reluctantly merging. The open, wordless book pulsed weakly, its heartbeat echoing the rhythm of my own.

I had found the place of “gone”, a realm where memories fade into oblivion, where the insides of scents and the weight of words lose their meaning. The coins of expression lay lifeless, their metallic sheen dulled by the passage of time.

Yet, amidst the forgotten, I clung to the haunting ache, a reminder of a past those ebbs and flows like the tide. It was a pain that lingered, a ghost that refused to be exorcised, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. For even in the face of oblivion, we hold onto the fragments of our existence, cherishing the echoes of our past as we journey into the unknown.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer