Standing proudly in the La Encarnación square, the Metropol Parasol mushrooms up in the
Sevillian skyline amongst the cluster of old buildings surrounding it. He had
been told that it was built by Jürgen Mayer H., and took six years to complete.
The criss-cross pattern of the structure left shadowy imprints on the undulating
pathway. The geometrical shapes, assuring in their rigidity and regularity,
went on endlessly and drew him into a vortex.
He wished
to do the same. Throw himself into a project that would wrench out of him all
his heart and effort. Lovingly craft something magnificent, painstakingly
putting the pieces together till it evolves into something else altogether.
Except while Jürgen Mayer H. used wood to build his megastructure, he would use
words.
Yes, he
would use words. They would be words that have sat within his brain for so long
before they were extracted so delicately, so painfully from the vapours of his
imagination and placed forcefully down on the white, lined pages of his
notebook. They would be words that quickened the blood and pierced the heart.
They would be words that sharpened people’s sensitivities and arrested their
mind.
He didn’t
have six years, however. He was told that he only had a few months before he…
The
words he wanted to speak would decay before they ever made it to the pages of
his notebook. And he had to live (or, to be accurate, to die) with the
satisfaction of silence.
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