Musings. Ex Libris

Some sighted a little girl, clothes bedraggled, picking up her stuffed doll afore a painting by Salvator Rosa, The Death of Regulus. How and why a grand museum piece ends up on the walls of ghetto is beyond comprehension. Maybe the painting is transported through the flicker of light the little girl recklessly ignited. For the weather is irrefutably dismal and the sale of candles soars. So soars the price of candles, the most invidious vendor makes it so. Some sighted a man facing heavenward and lamenting his inability to purchase even a short, unreliable candle. This winter is made austere, since it is too expensive a flame to exorcize the pricking coldness. No mists nor fogs but something dense and humid descends from the sky, encompassing all. Like a weightless carpet it falls, presumably a white whispering from God. A doddering old man stares up and declares he sees snows. A stout egg-white candle held by some silky-skinned, taper fingers illuminated all. At least to the little gir...

A person is by no means identified as a maestro even when he is infused with every creativity one can grasp, words, music, paints or crafts. Once being depraved of all these, what is left of that person is a question to be begged. I am now sitting in a room four-walled by white blankness. Nothing blotted onto those walls but sheer palpabaleness. I feel things through my sentience when nothing stands in the way to juggle with the vision. Everything is nullified into its bareness. I feel I can be cooped up in this room forever. Other rooms are hemmed in with canvas blatantly-sprinkled over. Noises blaring out of every line and every shape. Their inhabitants are convinced of their superiority. Milk cows scuttering across the floors whimpering like a weanling baby. Nevertheless someone is weeping in the corner of my room. My eyes penetrate the white screens but do not reach the one who cries. The muffled sobs are titillating yet at pains to raise my sympathy. Something far away tumbles in,...