Adventures from the window sill

There are, to put it mildly, both good and less good adventures... or fairy tales. The less good, there is no need to waste time on, but the good ones deserve attention. The origins of them has always been there, and when some of them want to make good sense, they take wings on and land on the window sills, if they see that there is a well-prepared desk nearby inside. They know from experience that this is a possibility that an attentive mind will spot them and portray them properly.

Adventures are often sensitive, and if they are described too sloppy, they facilitate their wings and find other window sills looking for well-prepared desks.

An adventure, landed in a bright windowsill. Inside was a desk with pen and ink, lots of blank sheets, and an easel with tensioned canvas. It soon became aware that the radio played some strenuous music. The adventure had a good deal of musicality and wisdom in its backpack, and could clearly feel that this music was not well. For music that was in harmony with itself, remained always within the eternal second, but this music was trying to escape it. It sent desperate screams out in all directions to escape the 'now’ and tried to imagine that it succeded with that.

Now is ‘the now’ not so easy to escape from, but the unfortunate music thought it had succeeded it, and you could even sense it boasted it. But it was far from happy, and grasped not a node of it. It tried to find new and more advanced ways to have peace in its innermost tones. But it made no difference. The unsatisfactory murmuring held by, and even dexterous Octave Shift did not help.

Then you could argue that the music was not responsible for its discordant bursts and feelings, but that the composer had to vouch for them, and it probably sounds quite plausible. One might add that the conductor and the musicians' abilities had their roles to play too.

The adventure unfolded its wings and left the windowsill. For this music would disturb the poet's mind, and thus his ability to describe so good that it could recognize itself. It was probably one adventure-right to demand that.

The poet had seen it coming and fly again. He switched off rapidly on the radio, because now he wanted to describe, and if someone, or something, tried to obstruct, they were sent to their own sites where they could entertain each other with their temporal considerations. The only way they understood the eternal second on was if a clock had stopped, without any thought about it, and yet glanced at it periodically.

Now he would contact Maya's castle, which was completely outside contacts. The place where all the untold adventure, and ‘the now’ lived. Then he would paint a word picture in oil, a portrait that looked like the adventure. It should absolutely not be a caricature.

And from Maya's castle came an ethereal stream of adventurous analogies and metaphors, as well as reports without bluntly, and the doors to the past and future were closed gently so the adventures could freely express themselves. They picked a few flowers in the past's and in the future's gardens, and took away a little weed here and there.

But they cultivated them not longer.