Messages on the Bedside Table

Thomas Newman - Angela Undress

I was standing in the middle of a snowy landscape and it felt like sand from the Sahara was falling on my forehead. 

My nose caught a foreign scent that reminded me of the aroma of anise. 

I felt myself entering a room separated by a velvet rope. 

The windows were open, the path was lonely, and thanks to it I found my way to blue eyes as big as two lakes, into which two green leaves fell from my linden tree.

And then, when all the world fell silent, I heard two distant hearts beating in unison. 

I've never known love that tasted like sangria before; leaving red marks on the lips and staining the collar of a cream shirt.

At the touch of a stranger's hand, I heard a harmonica being played somewhere in the distance. 

I walked the same streets but with the status of a foreigner, comparing every corner and every roof with the familiar surroundings.

In the Iberian Peninsula, the moon confidently followed the stars, which threw crumbs for them so they wouldn't get lost on their way across the sky. 

I learned to speak a new language.

A February blizzard led me to an abandoned cemetery where a bully had buried the potential of his own son. 

I was attracted to the place perhaps only because the sun constantly blew smoke from his cigarettes into it.

The tombstone was nondescript, marked with the sign of Virgo, with wilted roses.

From my studio, where there was a constant smell of drying paint from the painted backdrops, I took motherwort seeds and planted them in the soil.

I imagined all the kind words I had tattooed on my heart after capturing them as the bricks from which I had built a city. 

I first entered it during my three-month trip to Spain, where I adopted a new daily ritual of shaking two pillows and pouring red wine into the same number of glasses. 

I breathed deeply, the flowers of the trees absorbed the colors of children's chewing gum, the streets smiled with purity. 

I felt at home. 

And then, perhaps thanks to the constant busyness of wallpapering old dwellings, I almost put the rumors of a big hurricane out of my head. 

The moment the crowns of palm trees danced in the still air, I understood that my vacation was coming to an end. 

So I took all my supplies, small souvenirs, sketches of future trips and hid them in the half-empty shelves of the common bungalow. 

I knew they were safe there. 

But when the strong wind came earlier, I had no choice but to flee and say goodbye to everything for good. 

 I promised myself that I would return one day; I am still deeply in love with your nature.