Would like to create something out of the blue, give it a little spin, and toss it to an undetermined direction and watch its path. It is not as important, that is how I think now, and I am willing to bet that it will not change my thoughts in the near future, how my creation would live its life and how or why it would disappear to the nothingness.
Once again, probably for the twentieth time, my dad, without even glancing at his hands, in no more, that in a few strikes and bends of the fingers, creates written inside and out, a papered airplane. And with a chilling to the bones scream, like a hungry newborn baby, thrusts (he called it Messages) to the air current that appears each time when huge door slides open just a few feet away from where we are sitting. The sight is so terrifying because the floor opens its massive mouth and opaque black hole, like a vacuum, sucks not only that plane that my dad throws in, but all the air from whatever was left in me from the previous plungies.
I am buckled to the chair, and the chair is strapped to the poll that is solidly concreted in front of this nightmarish mouth. The screams I have are not noticeable, not even to the bats that linger from time to time above and around us. And, as you can guess it right by now, yes, I can't talk or outer any worthwhile notesing sounds at all. And each airplane that goes to that seemingly bottomless and black abyss, my already slim body loses weight and thickness. The scenery is frightening as you couldn't even imagine, and yet the dullest and repetitive like a broken record, that swivels a few rounds and suddenly goes back to its starting point. Yes. My dad, before making a plane and throwing it out, writes all he could think of on me. The anger and frustration are always noticeable when the pen he uses poks yet another ugly hole in me. It is a rough life sometimes. But this is the only one I have.
