My OperaParis
Thursday, September 6, 2007 5:35:52 AM
So, I’m stuck for 4 hours in Paris.
Er, say, are they painting something in the sky?
Unknown objects leave traits of jet smoke in the skyblue sky. To the left, to the right. They cross each other. Cross.
And they disappear. As if never exist.
New traits come, going on leaving lines in the sky, going on crossing each other. New ones cross old ones. To a point where all the lines are new, no sights nor signs of the old ones can be seen. Not mentioned. Not remembered to a new generation. Not existing.
They paint the sky with shapes formed by their crossing. Sometimes it’s a big blue board with parallel lines, like a proper learned fundamental geometry lesson. Sometimes it’s just a disorder mess. But soon enough, old lines vanish, and substituted by new lines. Everything is put back to order… or to a new unresolved mess.
That’s how the painting in Paris skyblue sky evolves. However, it should be like that everywhere there is a skyblue sky and there are jets to paint on it.
Shape and shift the sky they’re on. Change the whole meaning by the butterfly effect of their paths or their crossings (or the lack of thereof).
I was eager to come back to school, and I still felt like that when I was checking in at SGN. But now as I am half way there, there’s this feeling of emptiness and loss inside me. It seems like I have just lost something I’m supposed to have, and made a decision of painting my path in the sky without it. So it chokes me with its broken bones. I also bear this pressure of an imaginary dilemma (or the imaginary freeness from thereof). What am I expecting to leave behind me?
No new tiny unknown objects have been launched, no new lines were made to substitute the withering ones. The sky comes back to its original skyblue color, plain and line-less. Right in front of me, behind the glass window, behind the building of Charles de Gaulle, far East, the sun is rising. Blinds my eyes with its sunlights. Orange-izes the horizon.
It’s Paris, le coeur d’Europe. A new day has come.
Er, say, are they painting something in the sky?
Unknown objects leave traits of jet smoke in the skyblue sky. To the left, to the right. They cross each other. Cross.
And they disappear. As if never exist.
New traits come, going on leaving lines in the sky, going on crossing each other. New ones cross old ones. To a point where all the lines are new, no sights nor signs of the old ones can be seen. Not mentioned. Not remembered to a new generation. Not existing.
They paint the sky with shapes formed by their crossing. Sometimes it’s a big blue board with parallel lines, like a proper learned fundamental geometry lesson. Sometimes it’s just a disorder mess. But soon enough, old lines vanish, and substituted by new lines. Everything is put back to order… or to a new unresolved mess.
That’s how the painting in Paris skyblue sky evolves. However, it should be like that everywhere there is a skyblue sky and there are jets to paint on it.
Shape and shift the sky they’re on. Change the whole meaning by the butterfly effect of their paths or their crossings (or the lack of thereof).
I was eager to come back to school, and I still felt like that when I was checking in at SGN. But now as I am half way there, there’s this feeling of emptiness and loss inside me. It seems like I have just lost something I’m supposed to have, and made a decision of painting my path in the sky without it. So it chokes me with its broken bones. I also bear this pressure of an imaginary dilemma (or the imaginary freeness from thereof). What am I expecting to leave behind me?
No new tiny unknown objects have been launched, no new lines were made to substitute the withering ones. The sky comes back to its original skyblue color, plain and line-less. Right in front of me, behind the glass window, behind the building of Charles de Gaulle, far East, the sun is rising. Blinds my eyes with its sunlights. Orange-izes the horizon.
It’s Paris, le coeur d’Europe. A new day has come.
