Writing About Alice

In an evening of July, kids on the grass laid after playing around. It was twilight, it’s almost time to go inside. Their hands behind their heads stretched out on the ground, whispering tales here and there with childish fabricated events of imaginary knights.

On the grass they were as they said your name, quiet mouths and attentive ears, looking around for your trace and the pocket watch you left behind somewhere. I was watching them from distance, no, you are not a tale. Isn’t it true that the characters of our favorite stories are alive, dancing around in our heads somewhere? If it is, then how is it that far from reality?
I don’t know, nothing makes sense, and that makes perfect sense.

Beautiful, innocent eyes of children glancing at each other, dreamily giggling, enlivened by tales of dragons and heroes. Your name forgotten now, but not by me. I remember you hinted something like “reality and imagination merge” and there is no difference between them, “isn’t life but a beautiful imagination?” you said, so I light my candles and celebrate my dreams before I sleep because I feel compassionate towards you, as if I visit your head every time before you speak and I know exactly what you want to explain, so I understand you, and I understand your madness, maybe because I have my share of that too.
I still believe in the abyss of your mind with mirrors betraying your reflection and echoes screaming your name. And I know that the human brain is universe, and our eyes encompass infinity.

So I walked to the children, recited some of Lewis’s words that reminded me of wonderful people like you:

“In a wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream
Lingering in the golden gleam
Life, what is it but a dream?”



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