The Message

This’s not a paper slipped inside a bottle, where ocean’s waves control its destination. It’s not a leaf, a golden one, when the autumn’s hand touches it, it falls. I doubt if my message has the form of a paper, or contains words. I fail to describe this category of phrases, since it’s so pure, so white, and so sincere. I’m afraid that words, eyes, or even a gentle wind of early April may carry some dirt, or defect, or envy to what I really hold inside my heart. Believe me, it’s the heart where all the emotions take place. And it really does so, by manipulating the blood supply to the brain!

If I could, I wish that only you may read this rubbish. Nevertheless, it’s only you whom my words to. Ok, I want to sum it up from the beginning, so no need to continue reading. How to sum it up? It’s the feeling which makes me laugh and smile like an insane man. Euphoria, except there’s a reason, and it’s not alcohol.

Knock, knock! They had left. Can you please open the door? We’re inside an old British cottage, near some shire where you and I only know. I’m neither afraid nor ashamed. I’m proud of being here, between your two eyes, and confident that my decision is correct. Yet, it’s cold outside, let me make some tea. Sit down, my fine lady. I’m here until the night to serve you. You know, for years I used to write and complain. This time, how can I complain of happiness? I used to have troubled mind, but when I see you, the storm stands still, and turn into kind waves of peace. Did you enjoy the English breakfast tea? I like to see the impact of your lips over its surface. So, you want to see how your face, angelic face, would turn my deepest pain and selfish emo into exploding pleasure and old 70’s hippie. 

Your face, the surface of a creek, descending from the highest mountain an eye can witness. I can’t prescribe it further. Let’s just walk under the tender sun of November, where the shadow of that mounts tend to go a bit south. Let’s inspire the warmth, while the sun is chill, from each other’s hands. When I look into your face, I realize how far I’m from the human world, you’re my world. I wonder along your facial characters and figure out that the language we both speak has no words or phrases. Don’t talk, I’m placing my finger over your lips, don’t talk please. Remember, how flattering to see your lips touching the edge of that cup. Your colorful eyes spread me with emotions.

We walked hand in hand. My fingers pray not to be taken away from yours. You see how childish they play among each other. And when you press my hand, you just want to transfer an impulse of emotions which ask me to hug you. Do you remember that scene in “The Inception” where they approach their dreamy world? The ocean is hitting and collapsing the empty buildings. I don’t know why I mentioned it here. Let’s just hug, we’re just between the horizon and god vision. Let’s just hug!

Feminine, per se, is ideal. I know you’re not going to be a prophet while you can have the divine power. I’m sure the least power you practice is making me smiling. Your circle of influence expands to make everything within go into orbits around you. Do you think I exaggerate? Please don’t, as I feel ashamed to tell you how chaotic my life was before. Nevertheless, the balance I witness among my atmosphere is all contributed to your gravity and attraction.

Picture From Arden Ellen Nixon. Message in a bottle. Website