time to let go

When is it the right time to let go

In a very large estate made personally by the imagination of a 1720 architect known as Lorenzo DeRossi. The young black haired man stood with hundreds of written novels and hundreds more unfinished journals lying all over the well crafted wooden floor. He stared at them hypnotized by the rhythm of opening books and flickering pages, he moved his eyes and stared at the floating curtains as they elegantly danced around to the touch of the invisible wind around him. He took deep breaths, trying hard to fill his already shaking body with moist air that had a perfume smell of the purple garden flowers, and the red roses neatly placed on separate tables by the balcony door. The smell made him feel lost in emotions of deep indescribable thoughts that lingered in his heard while pouring wine in a glass and trying hard to resist the edge to drink it. The date was september 29th, 2012. It was a quiet day with birds singing on a pine tree outside his window. Sounds of passing cars could be heard all the way out on the suburb road in front of his estate yard. He set there looking at the glass of rich wine, from a 1911 bottle,with a name he could not pronounce, a bottle only found in italy's unknown wine fields at the outskirts of Venice. The wine in the glass glowed a dark red color that caught his eyes. He watched it sitting there on the kitchen table, capturing him so poetically with its crystal design. The sun's rays pierced through the window and made the glass shine even beautiful, as it revealed small faded colors similar to those of Victoria Falls summer rainbows. He felt confused by what his eyes had opened to him and his aching heart. For many months he had looked at that very glass and never saw anything other than just a glass, something to drink the sweet red wine he had become accustomed, from its taste and the lusting shiver his tongue and lips would get after he drank it. But then the thought of his lips kissing Her after every sip gave him strength. He got up from the couch and walked to the table, then he held the glass of wine. His heart was pounding calmly but his thoughts were screaming at him with different feelings of different voices. He held the glass and through it to the white wall. The glass shuttered spreading around the sitting room and across the floor into millions of pieces. Drops of wine spilled everywhere on the wooden floor. He watched the red liquid flow and found some sick twisted pleasure in it all. But the pain he felt in his heart did not leave, it could not leave , it had left a scar that opened deep into his heart like thorns from tropic veins, found in the middle Garden of his favorite part of the yard. He held back the tears filling his eyes. He was broken, defeated and paralyzed. He felt life had taken so much from him and given him little joy but greater pain and misery, it was almost as if he had nothing left to leave for. He watched unconsciously as his trembling hand moved slowly to pick up a piece of glass that had caught the gaze of his eyes thanks to the lighting in the kitchen. He picked it up without any doubt or question. He felt the need to feel more pain, he wanted to feel more pain so that he might just cease to feel pain any more. Suddenly a broken piece of glass began moving across his right wrist with assistance from his thumb and index fingers. His eyes stared like a witness seeing a crime he could not stop. The air in the room began to get lightly cold as a slight breeze blew past him. Blood began dripping to the floor without making a sound, not even the whisper of droplets. He could not move his hand he could not hold back the pain he had been holding back ever since she came back from another man, a man she looked him straight in they eyes and assured him, he was no longer there, a man she had said did not mean more to her than he did. He remembered the long kiss she gave him after telling him those words. He was understanding and for gave her, but months later she had done it again. The very same enemy his heart despised

Author's Note

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