April 24th arrives
already half‑forgotten,
like a dream you try to hold
but it keeps slipping
through the fingers of your mind.
It brings with it
a fading memory
of the main room
of the Louvre…
not the paintings,
not the tourists,
not the velvet ropes,
but the room itself:
its breath,
its echo,
its impossible stillness.
You remember the light
falling in slow sheets,
the marble floor
reflecting centuries,
the hush of footsteps
that felt like prayers
spoken sideways.
But the memory blurs,
dissolves,
recedes,
as if the museum
has decided
you are no longer allowed
to keep it whole.
April 24th then shifts,
tilts,
opens a trapdoor
into a secret place
in a house of fun.
A hidden corridor
behind the mirrors,
a room where laughter
is stored in jars,
where the air smells
of sugar and dust,
where the floorboards
creak like old clowns
stretching their tired bones.
It is a place
you once stumbled into
by accident,
or destiny,
or the strange gravitational pull
of curiosity.
And then,
as if the day cannot resist
one more transformation,
April 24th becomes
a disco of the 70s.
A spinning room
of mirrored lights,
a pulse of bass
that shakes the month awake,
a dance floor
where time loses its posture
and memory learns
to move its hips.
The colors flash,
the bodies blur,
the music loops
like a heartbeat
that refuses to age.
April 24th is all of this:
museum hush,
funhouse secret,
disco fever…
a day stitched together
from the fragments
of places you once loved
or dreamed
or invented.
It ends
with a slow fade,
a soft shimmer,
a final echo
of a song
you can almost remember
but never fully sing.
