A Cup of Coffee

Lady of Shallot

Many a year I have spent locked in my cell, doomed by an ancient curse to look the world through a shining screen. Quietly I have worked, weaving my web of words, drawing the reflections I used to see. Who knows the wrong I did to deserve such a curse, who knows whose feeling I unkonwingly hurt. Still I labored in my tapestries, in peace, almost in sweet contentment, invisible to the eyes of the crowd in a Southern American town. I have worked and I have written the visions I glimpse from a screen, for it was written that a terrible doom would befall if I ever dared to look directly into the world. I was almost content, I swear, writing about the workers who plodded down the road. I have seen images of their daily tasks, their office buildings, their triffling thrills as the night comes. I have seen the young ones and their games and toys, and the gentle shade of their joys. One sleepless night, I have even witnessed the furtive meeting of lovers, their hands locked, I locked into my cell, half sick of shadows like the Lady of Shallot.

Then as of this morning, my eye was caught by a shining light, too intense to behold, not fleeting like a star. Purposefully, consciously, I turned my eyes from the screen and looked directly into the world, as I had been told not to do. I forgot the curse, or belittled it, for a glimpse of a lonely knight that marched down the road singing nonsensical words out loud, as if the vastness of the world belonged to him and him alone. I had forgotten the curse, but the curse had not forgotten me. The screen was shattered in a thousand pieces, the winds came howling proclaiming my doom, a proverbial storm came by. It was too late to hope for a change, a redeeming hand, a prince charming, a fairy godmother. I was too far gone.

So I left my tower, my cell, and wandered around the docks, looking for a boat that will take me to the heart of town. A boat, a nameless boat in which I sing my last song. My web, my tapestry is wrapped around me, a flimsy shelter from the chilly weather, while I float. In a matter of hours, this vessel will find some kind of port, maybe in Rio or Camelot. The crowd maybe will cheer or silence as the boat finally reaches the shore. In my everlasting sleep, I will never know if the knight will see God's grace written upon my face.    

posted by Livia de Almeida @ 9:59 PM