Within a Sky Full of Earth

This was the result of my creative writing exercise on Shirley Lim's workshop. After a process of relaxation, the idea was to bring back a distant smell from the depths of your memory. Writing freely without stopping for a few minutes.

It was the house. The view. As if you could smell the view. The floor, not the scent of the floor, but the touch as a smelly little torture. The doors. The walking in. The ring bell. The summer. The smile of the face that would walk you in. The face that is just a memory, ageless in time, as now and forever. The room inside. The weight of your jacket that was about to be put asside. Thorned. And then someone was there. Rich, perfect, beautiful. And that person was all hands. Hands lighting up a cigarette. Matches probably. Or a cigarette that would be lighten up by itself, just like that, with those magic hands. Hands that would flow to the pages of a book or so many books placed on the shelfs of the wall. And then he would hold his head in an endless thought. Endless in time. Through the steps of the memory.
But the smell was the smoke. The smoke all over the place, unnoticeable. Like the smoke of a gun that is about to blow your head. Smoking coming in and out, invisible, just targeting your eyes sleepless into your rememberings.
The hands that hold the cigarette, yes. And the smoke that from the truth was not really there.