Prose

Amelie is me

Amelie is me. Plunging my hand in the sack full of chia seeds. They are enfolding my fingers by silky touch. Mixed with the non-dairy milk, they swell enclosed in the jar with the staple, just like abstractions in my mind.

Amelie is me. Running through the sunny streets of Montmartre and merging with the crowd trying to find the solution of the enigma – who is that ginger brunette wearing red jacket?

Amelie is me. Plunging my face in the fluffy kitten’s fur, the strange creature, which stopped for a while to find out how the attraction looks like. Still searching for an answer.

Amelie is me. Wearing Zorro mask and hiding the contents, which should be shown to the world. Maybe it’s not the accurate time, maybe it’s coming right now.

Amelie is me. Falling asleep buried in the crumpled bedding, without feeling, with no memory. Hoping to see the vision of the better reality and curved boarders of the worlds’ breaking. Every night.

Amelie is me. Deafening all the matters of great importance by the negligible trivia. Well, sometimes the definitions of “important” and “unimportant” are split by the very flimsy border. I like to bend it.

Amelie is me. Remembering all the details which give the meaning to the events and phenomena. The whole memory net is woven from them. Thin, but stable.

Amelie is me. I see the world in the different colours; warm, pastel shades dominate. The mixture of harmony is often being disrupted, but that’s how the world works.

Amelie is me. Spinning the intrigues how to decode the reality. Sometimes it is better to live in one’s own version of the world; life becomes more bearable.

Amelie is me. Deriding the grotesque of the dwarf. Changing the grotesque in the undefined beauty. Until is moves the deepest neural junctions, it is worth calling like that.

Amelie is me. The waitress of my own knowledge and consciousness. Serving them in fistfuls, seasoning with marjoram and cinnamon. I forgot the meaning of the word “normal”.

Amelie is me. Looking for the relevant facial expression for the girl with the glass. Wondering what is inside the glass. The colour of the beverage is dependent on the angle of the sunshine.

Amelie is me. Glued pieces of photos uncover the secret of my heart. I’m just thinking if I know the answers for the questions where and when.

Amelie is me. Opening the door of my flat and trying to keep up appearances. The truth is hidden in the crumbles of chocolate cake spread on the kitchen table.

Amelie is me. I feel the warm gust in my hair and I’m absolutely convinced that without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s.

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