Saturday, May 31, 2014

A SAGA FOR NON-PHENOMENAL PHENOMENA

 


Once upon a time...A comb. Made of wood. Having big sparse teeth. 

One day, the conb in a hand. Like every day. It combed hair. It combed and combed...

However, the hair got tangled. All the more tangled. And the comb was detangling them. It kept trying and trying...It was detangling dreams as well. And thoughts.

It saw tears for the first time on that day. It didn't understand what they were. Therefore, it jumped to a conclusion; they were magical drops.

Fearless, it thought of attempting to break the "spell". It couldn't though! It was held by the hand. It didn't know what to do...Then, a black hairpin came beside the comb. Before it took its place on the hair, it whispered to the comb:

 - Why not learning how to knit?
 - Knit what?, it asked bewildered.

But, the hairpin had already left. And the comb remained on the sideboard pensive.

On the same night, a book came beside her. How fat it was! "How many words could it have eaten to have become like this...", the comb thought. However, it didn't ask the book. Out of kindness.

The poor book seemed to be suffering. It couldn't turn a leaf! It looked like it had something serious to bother it. 

 - Excuse me, what's the matter?, asked the comb.
 - I'm disturbing you, aren't I? Please, forgive me, but I'm really loaded!, answered the book.
 - How can I hep you?
 - I'd be much obliged, but I don't think you would manage!, sighed the book in hopelessness.

The comb felt pity for it. And it found a way to help it: the book was giving the comb words from its pages and the comb was knitting them. In the beginning, it was kind of hard, because the comb hadn't knitted before. But, as the time was passing by, the project seemed to be made mechanically.

Until the morning came, everything was alright. The book was sleeping, relieved from its heavy burden, while the comb was snoring torn out by the night work, and a wonderful, bright mantle of words was coming down from its teeth. 

That day lapsed by normally. Like most of the days. Maybe a little more luminous. At night, the very same night, the comb went to sleep early. But, it wasn't lucky. It had to work overtime. To comp and detangle. 

Of course, now, with the mantle of words on its teeth, it also did - almost unconsciously - something else: it knitted. Words with hair. Letters with locks. Thoughts with syllables. 

The comb was exhausted when the hand left it back on the sideboard. It didn't even see any dreams. It just woke up covered with fragrances in the morning.

"That's why I didn't feel cold during the night!", it said. It jumped out of the cover and thought in awe: "Who on earth did cover me like this?"...Everything around seemed as usual. Even the hand, that came to pick it up for work. 

More days passed by. And equal nights. Some of them brought several more books as companions. Several more mornings the day woke up coverd with fragrances.

Someday, the tears - the "magical drops" - made their appearence on the face again. They'd been rolling down unstoppably. The comb was working. And searching. A way to break the "spell". 

Then, the mantles it had been knitting all this time started unfolding down from the hair and its teeth. Silver, golden, red, black, colorful, the words unwinded and spread on the mirror. What was most incredible, they tagged dreams along with them. They dragged images. And formed a whole life. Another, new life. There, on the mirror.

That was it! The "spell" broke. The tears vanished. And, at night, when the comb went to sleep again on the sideboard, it knew that the "spell" wouldn't come back again.

However, some visitors came along that night. They came and woke the comb up. They were a bunch of peculiar translucent creatures. Having non-definite shapes. And a variety of voices. Which kept speaking and telling lots of things - but the comb couldn't understand much.

Only one managed to speak loud and clear:

 - We are your words, it said. We came to say goodby. Now that we built a freedom, it's time for us to go. We'll leave you the covers we gave you, so that you'll remember us. 

And from then on, the wooden comb remained with the mantles there. On the sideboard. In front of the mirror. Strong. But not alone, as the best of its dreams was there too: her favorite book!