L'aura del Campo

I miss the red wine communists...

I miss the red wine communists, the smoky rooms with piles of yellowed books. —Anna Lisa

And she did. Her eyes were red from lack of sleep and her skin jaundiced from too little...

It didn't matter. She had a story to write even if she had to tell her own. A boring headache that would be, she sighed.

Then put pen to blank page and began to doodle. A few lines here and there signifying nothing. But it was her tale not theirs.

Theirs were told by famous people, pressed between pages like dead roses or translucent poppies. Old stories; sad stories. Almost as boring as hers but she wasn't sitting on the shelf molding. At least, not yet.

She intended to get there some day. Pages stained by wine or coffee, corners frayed by readers who could not stop. She'd settle for that. Even if they were tainted pink from faded red. Even if "they" were fascist... but why would one of them ever read about her. She wasn't powerful nor into controlling others. She had nothing to offer them.

She missed those red wine communists, those rosé socialists, even those cigar smoking writers with their piles of yellowed tomes.

© Kåre Enga [1.juli.2016]

Inspired by the quote above made by Anna Lisa.

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