(32) The secret story behind the veil

(32) The secret story behind the veil

There is a small room with a wooden desk. The view is up close. No other details matter. There appears to be a wooden box. The view is now from the front. It is indeed a wooden box. Someone enters and sits at the desk.

We don't see who, we only see part of the body. The hands open the box, and just before they open it, I wish you could hear the grief, the intimeate sadness and regrets...so many…many regrets… a soft piano gently unfolds, a gyroscope of melancholy, meandering. along with the serene plains of the cello down sad windings of realization… If only you could hear…it sounds like Hans Roedelius's "Adieu Quixote.". Everything else unfolds in silence…

The hands are not rushed but move with a sense of urgency. There is an envelope of folded pages.. Someone wrote these with a purpose and this isn’t the first time these hands reach for them. It is not at all certain if the person reading wrote this or if someone else did. The aura and auspices are of a painful confession. Something dreadfully inadequate endured through someone else.

Something unfit to remember I’m sure, and that’s why at this point, a thick white veil, something like a very large immaterial white paper and wooden fan unfolds to conceal and set the stage for this drama in silence. As the senses become immersed in the rich canopy of the quietly folding and waving veil, the story becomes felt only in its implications as a moment of tragic horror in very slow and gentle, sometimes wincing undulations that meander their plight meditatively along the folds of your conscience.

In the end, when it is over for now in physical reality, and after the events have been relived in the memory as hurt intimate trauma, the hands put down a pen and refold the pages---no script is visible---and on that moderate pace, the cello and piano accompany the otherwise silent scene of the hands putting everything back in the wooden box and closing it.

The veil is gone. Nothing threatening is visible. Just the person leaving the small room. A close view of the desk from the front with the wooden box is visible again. The secret story is left behind the veil.

Many years later, a pair of olden hands put back the envelope into the box, trembling from shock rather than old age. It is not seen who. The same weightless black wings of the cello and piano accompany in perfect geometry of grief, the silent scene once again unfolding, sinking in deep trauma.

A rocking chair, a wood framed window, looking out on vast green fields of short-cut grass and small rocky bumps. Summer rain poured in abundance, streaking down the glass. There is no fire lit. It is getting quite dark and chilly. These elements playback again and again to form the veil this time. All of these together, are stretched out at times to a serene meditative drama, a peaceful tragedy. When it’s like this, nothing else matters anymore.

Everything is suspended in time and space. It despairs me to be unable to provide more detailed information. As intimate as the events and memory feel, a terrible injustice permeates, as does some shame, a truly devastating embarrassment. Nothing was ever done and the only thing that ever will is this advice of a terrible consequence whispered to who can hear: enlarge your scope of what you think can happen to you.

Listen to your intuition. When it happens, it happens for good, for real and only small pieces are left, forever, of what was, like a bulb left broken in its socket. Its half-life was a long veiled dusk till eventually, darkness formed an obscure envelope to conceal what was either unspoken, unseen and unheard by anyone but so terribly felt by you. By then, you will know that those who get close to you, in spirit or body, don't all love you.