He wonders why he loves deep rich colors, burgundy and forest green, and shades of dark blue, and indigo too, but disdains pastels. Shades of white and golds also seem to hold a special place, bone and cream and snow, an odd threesome.
He wonders why he loves rich wood tones, and marbled stone, even deep russet brick, and the names of colors he doesn’t know but whose sounds taste exotic on his tongue. Cerulean and azure, chartreuse and lavender too.
He wonders why he loves bathing in hot water, the light touch of steam and cascades, but also sleeping in cool beds, alone, while he watches the dance between moon and clouds. Looking for messages, perhaps even for hope from the stars
He wonders why he loves to dream and does so both frequently and ferverently, almost always while asleep, and he remembers those waking dreams from sources and worlds and lives unknown that flash a lifetime in seconds and then fade away.
He wonders why he wonders about the dreams of plants and flowers and trees, why he wonders if rocks rest, why he wonders if he’s real, or if perchance he’s an amnesiac demiurge lost in corporality, and then again, he wonders why.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2016; all rights reserved