Letters to the Western Wind

The First Letter

I am M., though you may call me D. it's the initial used when I was seven years old, it's a cat's name written on the walls of my memories, it might told everything about me. I am a story-teller, mama told me dozens in my childhood. Too young I would say, just twenty-seven roses fallen deep within a brilliant mind.

What a beautiful name? This must be the right purpose to replace freedom  onto glorious chains of Totalitarian regime. I've got so many remembrances and I keep it onto colorful boxes, though I should have known that people have secrets to be told ever since. In the greatness of all humanity may appear as the everlasting love.

I was walking to Victoria's Square, in Birmingham, it's the next stop from where I live to,Crescent Road. in Marston Green. I work as an au-pair for a blackish family here, though I have noticed that people may be colorful to anyone of us.

The first footsteps to freedom and people were looked like pigeons rambling from the fourth corners of the square's, making lark all over onto a bright sunny morning of May. The ageless view to mankind's have turned into a continuous fascination before my eyes. The grey sound of the clock's bell was silent for my taste.

Welcome to the Western Gates of Proudness filled by great credos and unfaithful features, though the stairways to heaven were stained blue-navy, it will rain, I say. I've rushed over the square  to catch a ticket to visit Birmingham Museum.

I've tried to embrace the unseen hands of the western civilization, it poured with many thoughts into my head. 

My patroness would say that people from Eastern communities were filthy and blackened .D. is nothing than a filthy creature from the Eastern part of Europe, where sun never shines as everybody dreamt of, wearing her ginger hair into the winds of change. She knows better how to clean up the dust from people's faces, praising for the best.

Thoughtfull D., though her day off is full of white and smooth clouds crossing Victoria's Square, clearing the handfull of bones and the bell's loud sounds.She sees the world though a dark pair of glasses. How she hates it!All should be forgotten, the square, the city, the New Street full of laughs and shouts  with colorful yougsters walking by, contemplating a day or two into her ruined desires of the western world.

All this labyrith of life  was far from her beliefs about it, astray of the East sweaters and grims.Too many times you have to ponder and think of what it might be the next step into your own path, but there is none to listen to you because people are too deaf and proud of themselves.She writes letters to the an unknown addresser, hoping that one day all those will be read in the end, though rainbow shall appear brightful than ever.Words looked like a baptizer into the infinite, she knows what she has to do, even if there were times when none plays the fool for thousand time, though she may feel the rebel of the East, ageless and hopeful.

The primal fear would begin at the entrance hall from Birmingham Museum, her eyes were astonished by the figure of an Iron Angel and his  wings  wide opened,her fascinations turned into an amnesiac nightmare.

A world full of signs who needed to push the decode button to see more, to feel more and to belive that all you visualize it's for real.The walls were decorated by wonderful paitings remembering of an Age when CATHARSIS have existed beyond evil look of the critics.She stops for a while in front of an old Verocchio sculpture memorizing the image of Madonna with Child, the begining and the end of mankind's hipocrisy of an absent God.

She sighs all the time, the world is an hole of fire she repeated to herself where time is the opposite meaning to infinity.

She was praising  to the holy powers to give her clues to decode this Western manufactured world, and thoughts became so real echoing to her ears some unknown words taken from nowhere.It's pretty odd, though she thought, but people's deafness  is far to be heard to these black parts of the country.She wished to preach some of her inner thoughts, she has stated for a moment  into a long hall surrounded by white walls crumbling into an earthly flood, raging inside like a sinister tempest to reality. In spite of all, she loves  these human-pigeons and their larks all round.She became obsessed to color up the world with some Eastern cries.She cannot imagine a life without stains of bright colors , she would feel mad and deeply sad. She wouldn't give a damn for Eastern Age of Selfishness.She left the foggy walls of solitude and she put her hopes into prison for an uncertain future.

Future will take you to nowhere!

They will say always that a story-teller has time on here side, not mankind, not Truth, but Time must ponder to a bunch of bones and out numbered breaths.She watched around for infinite hours into a bath tub full of name less masterpieces until it became dark outside.

She was torturing herself by thinking  to return to blackish's mansion.