Crossing the thin line
By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo
WE always straddle between and among choices, filling gaps in our existence. In between, we are transported to dimensions of reality that live inside us, taking us to a journey replete with symbolisms, deeper realities that we have chosen, consciously or unconsciously, to bury and forget, to mold and create.
The thin line
in two hours, a deadline.
not a word, in my mind.
a van, a one-year old grandson
smiling at me, from the front seat
speaking as we drove
on a steep slope
inside an old building
up to the second floor
to the office of a Chinese businessman
who turned into a man with a robe
whose hand I reluctantly kissed, like a holy man
as ladies in dainty white linen garments
wearing Victorian wigs
rush down from the upper floor.
I looked, and looked closer
my eyes, like a camera,
zoomed in, and out.
the faces, beautiful from a distance
were, up close, slightly grotesque
the women had lotus feet
but walked the flight of stairs,
like gazelles, not showing any pain.
and then, a spacious room
full of rooms, with no one in sight
I stripped my clothing, piece by piece
up to the last teeny-weeny bit
twirling the intimate thing
into the air, dancing
in freedom, in sweet quiet songs
and gentle, flowing waters
to take a bath, in a room
looking out, to the sea.
three knocks on the door
and I was back, quickly crossing the thin line
between the magical and the surreal.
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