In that lonely place painted in faint light colors, the woman was reclined, nearly inert, upon a dream. Sat on the floor, feeling comfortable inside, a proper temple for that garish decayed piano. As she rested there, she was awfully lazy and confused. At the end of that quiet day, she was going to play the musical score, though she hesitated for a moment and bowed her head in doubt. Was it all well with her?, there was something that withheld her desire to play. And yet again, there was something that was not in order. For long she pondered on the notes, maybe was not the piece of music she wanted. Neither would that music be herself.

My golden kingdom for a tasty hamburger (with onions).
Day by day, the king reigns, gives instructions and disposes whatever he may feel. - "I decide and propose what I want and fancy to, only my will shall prevail"- said the arrogant sovereign. No matter how but he's ended being high above, not in vain he's got the "Golden Touch". Today: - "it's your turn ... now I want to make you ... of gold". My hands make treasures, I may be the happiest of all people. My thoughts of soul are full of glittering and my hands shine wherever or whoever I want to choose. Again, I decide and dispose and gladly arrange. Now you, then tomorrow it's not going to be you ... you do not, perhaps the other does, or Ms so-and-so does not... Only I know. and I'm above simple mortals, simple and lambed people. However, in the end, not everything that shines is good, "not at all healthy", nor do we have our souls as clean as one had thought. Greed, great arrogance, a great amount of pride that do not let us see the landscape, don't forget selfishness, inflexibility ... finally corrupt the soul, leave people without any heart.
I prefer to be simple, eating a simple hamburger.
I do not want to have "the Golden Touch", I give it to whoever wants it and to whom their arrogance and greed and their ego, make them wish to possess it, above all... to those who desire to be "made of gold".

Nature breaks into that decayed home, opening its way through a hole... Buildings fall, inhabited places where there isn't any lively beat of life again, so thus lifetime was waning and waning away. The memory of days lived there, was reflected in the mere darkness of the vacant chimney, in the wear invading all around where ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. Branches go curious to see where those changing lives hide, lives that come and go. Some tenuous rays of encrimsoned light made their way through the colour changing leaves. With some sadness, as if to remedy the situation, the tree offers the best it has: its pomegranates, one by one dropping into the floor. As if with them, would fill that shadowy place with life again.
The tree is helped by the sun that is outside, the earth, the water, all together give it life. There is nothing left inside, only memories.

During the whole of a tedious, golden-lighted and soundless autumn afternoon, she found herself coming to pick the pomegranates, knowing that they should be in that forgotten part of the house and patient she goes there, all bathed with a sense on insufferable melancholy. Gifts that nature gives her and she sits there for a while, the last vestige of life in that place. She sat there, gazing upon vacancy for some time, in an attitude of attention, as if listening to sounds of a daily life that did not exist anymore, she could dream there for hours. Autumn is a quaint time, it is neither soft nor extreme. She feels cold, the weather changes and she has a moment to collect the gifts for her in that forgotten corner.

Maybe, with a shudder either of coldness or loneliness, she couldn't find the solace that she'd expected there. Better days were distant now, as she was feeling oppressed by a thousand conflicting sensations, all closely shrouded in black.
Wrapped by the nakedness of the place, in an "Unbearable Melancholy".

There was the huge pine asleep and I, holding you with my bare fingers and hoping to feel the percussiveness of your heart again, that no longer was present there in that small body. - If it is no longer inside of you, somewhere it must be. If I can not do anything for you anymore, at least I want to be sure that you're still in the air, in this life ... you're still in the sky, with certainty I want to find you near me. -

- Your heart beats louder, your heart has become a beloved leaf. Leaved Heart, red as blood, full of life, you remain calm and at peace. -

In this afternoon of dull lights, of growing cold, the bird was dancing at last in this autumnal dance. Why did she love leaves, what was the meaning of her excitement when they moved randomly around her?. Symbols also of love and hope; instruments too of grief.

- The leaves dance, your heart dances. I kept you all the time in my hands, in a futile attempt to hold you close to me, now I know I was a little deranged, because you never did wanted to be by my side. -

The murmur of the pine's green boughs was in her ears and for long she pondered on the days together. At last, she realized that he was not hers, unbound bird, friend of the scenery, owner of his freedom.

- I just have to leave you comfortable on the floor, among the pine leaves, in a good shelter, where shall I take you and how?. -

The sunset sun was making a golden dazzle over the whole scene.

- I'm happy knowing that your heart of leaves, fly free into the air. More than anything, I want to be easy in my mind again. Our time isn't ours at all anymore!. -

No one around, no voices near, just emptiness of any perturbing distraction. Dark clouds pass by the high peaks melting into sky elusively ... in resemblance of pompous birds that fly with exaggerated delicacy, in a mad search of a nest. Although the trunk weighs in her arms, she does not even think about ceasing in her rocking. The sweetness in which the woman looks down strikes and when she looks at the bare branch of a tree, she's contemplating her son ... smiling in her arms, all the heat of innocence, being born to a new day. Life is chivying about, a tender scene motionless in time. Now she rocks it, now she looks up at nature, witness of that supernaturally tender union. A palpable and mute union that confronts with passion the conundrum of life.

The woman rocks her child, the woman rocks her trunk ... and in her dream, "she sees what she wants to see" ... because she believes in all her dreams, in all her illusions, in her vision of the most beautiful life she likes to live. How important is it the way we pursuit our dreams? of most importance. That day, the stillness and lack of life of a trunk, gives life to her feelings. In the middle of the mountain, in the middle of nowhere, the woman adores her child with eagerness.

So we are every day, in the middle of uncertainty, in the middle of nowhere, we are opening the way to our desires, caressing in our mind the best we think and hope, the path we want to follow. What does it matter all around? What do all the inconveniences or apathy matter? An eager meaninglessness. The strength of the will and our hearts make us walk towards our dreams each day. The most beautiful ones. A place for the genuine.

No man's land - Text written by Isabel Coixet, an internationally renowned, Barcelona-born movie director.

My face is red as I write this. Not out of embarrassment, but out of rage. Two individuals with esteladas [Catalan secessionist flags] wrapped around their necks started screaming at me outside my door this morning, calling me a “fascist” and yelling “You should be ashamed!”. [...]

They continued to yell, so I turned around and calmly – even now, two hours later, I am still amazed at how calm I remained – said: “Aren’t you ashamed to talk to me this way if you don’t even know me?” They kept right on screaming. The dog was pulling on the leash. I walked away. But this is the third time that they have yelled “fascist” at me so far this week (and the first time that I have answered back). And I find that something inside me is breaking. These last few months, the level of hatred aimed at us is reaching new heights [...]

I see now, with horrifying clarity, that no matter what happens next, there is no room here for me or for anybody who dares to think independently, even though this is my birthplace. Today it is insults against me, yesterday it was insults against members of my family; the day before it was insults against friends of mine whose other friends openly criticize the fact that the former are still friends with me. And tomorrow, it will be something worse.

And you think about the fear that has already covered, like spores, the skin of all those people who keep quiet but who secretly come tell you that they’re on your side – that they are grateful for what you are doing, and then they tell you that they don’t even talk about the situation inside their own homes, for fear that their children will hear them and get into trouble at school [...]

While I think about all this, I am starting to calm down. After all, mine is a First World problem. As I have often done in the past, I am trying to minimize what is happening to me in order to avoid feeding the monster of hate that would make me indistinguishable from those who now insult me. [...]

I never thought that speaking one’s mind respectfully and honestly would come at such a high price. And yet I would not for the world trade this dry, silent no-man’s land in which I find myself, which I know that many people find themselves in – a place without any chanting or screaming or slogans, where the air only blows against white flags that whisper the word “Help” into the wind, in the vain hope that someone, somewhere, will listen before it is too late [...]

Short, slow steps succeeded to each other without end ... Three steps, stopped ... the path is still in front of you, four ones more, faster and faster with your firewood.
That day at the top of that steep slope, you were the most wonderful appearance I've ever seen... frightened like an animal, you stood immobile ... not knowing whether to run or scream and I went to contemplate you. Now the steps do not follow, motionless, the pace of the walking began to be marked by your heart. The beats of your life, more agitated ... pum..pum..pum

When it rains all senses become alert, like an animal that awakens from its long lethargy ... attracted by food or by humidity. When it rains, it cleans everything, even my soul and I see you reflected in every drop, in the clouds above that fight one another to occupy a little piece of grey sky. Do not ask me ... where the rain is ... it is obvious, or not so obvious, at first sight on the wet stones that give firmness and security to my back, a true shelter. In the droplets in my clothes, in my hair ... in the air I breathe ...
You insist on seeing yourself reflected in a thousand different faces, but in none of them you can go inside, nor deepen, no one looks at you with the heart. Neither they're your last home.
The rain is sweet, the rain could be conciliatory.
Do not ask me where the rain is... everywhere I see!

Perseverance to survive exposed to public view, if so you could:
You! You shine with sweetness, in better dress trimmed... all may judge.
The crudeness of the earth and the barrenness that surrounds you,
Cannot frighten you! hardness was not my mind.
Communicating feelings in a world around so irksome! .

Your life is ephemeral, instead you look at everything from naivety,
Who would have your sweetness! Who would have your beauty!
You survive caressed in her lap, in this soft falling of afternoon lights.
Persevere in being sweet and sensitive!, in such a feeble judgment!.
Night will cover her heart with its deep moon... finally, on a bitter air.

"Is the grass greener elsewhere? Perhaps! Perhaps, if watered with tears from the storm" (Tony Hadley)

The scene was enclosed in the intimacy of that place. After all the outburst and with the coming of complete acceptance, everything has suddenly turned upside down. The mortar between the bricks rose up into small, capricious stalagmites, entangled forever among the bricks, which clung to each other and now lied down in defiance of all logic, perhaps were not they a narrow roof?
Everything has turned, everything has changed ... she was supposed to have remained in that inner darkness, but expectations were fulfilled: the one above now is the soul, not the little dome of stone. Only the numb feet remember that the body intended to be confined to that narrow place; Far from her desire, though the woman wasn't now in possession of her physical senses, her longing was to fly, to find amplitude and open space, something that equaled her desire to follow more and more. She was standing at the gate of her own trip. The wild flowers, the bouquet of yellow flowers was her only link with the earth, at first her reaction was to stand by it, not to lose everything known, soon the flowers will wither, but will not end her new life, nor her freedom. The inner does not need any mooring and doubtless, she began to heard whispers in an unknown tongue. The thought of her past life didn't urge her so. She could no longer feel weight in her body, nor the throat was swollen with thirst.

She pondered a moment in sore perplexity, but once again she could read the answer, her head bent, on her hands: a whirling feeling of purity. As the sea always gives back an answer, she looked at it, anxiously... there were two hands covered with blue tissue, in a bluish haze, sealike, peaceful as her heart was. At that moment, a light broke upon her soul in her darkness and doubts, that have bewildered her, were solved by the answer in her hands.
So saying, the sea returns to the beach sand,  some algae ... an indispensable part of its own life, also everything we may have thrown, it brings them back: bad or good ... whatever, the sea will return.
Most of the time, she used to walk on the beach with a bag in hand, picking up small plastics or things that can dirt the charming shore, sort of home.
   -"When I find it clean, I find myself too. Almost nobody does it, does not anyone care?"-
"What you're throwing into the sea... it's being given you back".
The same as, "what you do to others, is what you get back later".
She remained there, feeling no shock while she was reading the answer and might have been divining the true reasons: nature speaks to beings, else words were not worth the thinking and then... she began to answer in her turn with respect. It was dusk and shadows have already begun to spread along the shore. It was time to return home. Though her relationship with the sea was but half begun.

With hesitant steps, she approached the old water wheel

Embracing her empty jar, only facing forgotten paddles of steel.

No longer would she be able to quench her thirst.

No longer would she be full of dreams, like at first.

Old water wheel in motionless.

Dry jar in emptiness.

"Compare with you, I'm empty too".

The old water wheel and the woman have seen sunny days

If ever too, there were rainy days.

Time passes , everything ends up making no sense,

Clouds pass, leaves fall... not giving recompense.

Yet the valley remains still very beautiful.

(c) Laura Marco

Minutes passed, and she continued wandering through the path to get there. Overcome a little by fatigue, her steps followed the narrow trace, full of dry shrubs, many dry stems that scratched the skin. At each step, she felt her calves squeezing, where long, incarnate threads were drawing capricious designs on her legs, the crudeness of the undergrowth on her body, her tender skin ruthlessly torn by brambles. She was making her way across.
"What does this pain matter?" - the reward when arriving will be beautiful indeed. Possibly, her impressionable mind was not conscious of her shambling walking, absorbed was she listening, at the distance, to the rustle of the water running through the boulders. There was a murmur of little water, but it fell with rage, splashing the ground in an unstoppable clatter, seeking its passage to the river.
"It seems to me, every day to be the same, moments that are equal to each other", an effect produced by the heaviness of the mind, mixture of heat and stunning. Somehow, confident in the fidelity of her force, she continued... this perfect exodus.

The final gift was worth the effort, there came the feeling of cold water falling on her skin, thousands of droplets that caress the entire body and in a fight to cover all clothing, hair and body, leaping her soul back to the present.
The little mud around the feet stands for impurity that cleans itself with water, its purity and cold cleans everything, whether material or spiritual.
"I prize these moments more than anything, they're so magical and empowering" - a short duration, which makes it impossible to get used to them.

The water jumps, the water dances in a thousand bright drops. Finding impossible to seek some rest in the sky, no cloud, only hot mist; Some day not far away will come the end of the reign of the sun, and the victorious rain queen will leave to water the fields, water the earth, wet the streets, refresh the spirits.
Perhaps the mind can remain in a spiritual rest forever, returning with our memory to a refuge of peace. And yet again, eager-footed, she returned home. Tensioned between faith and doubt.

The beginning of a hug ... the scene starts with the warmth and the softness of the contact of her hands on the skin followed by the tenderness of the rubbing ... hands that try to embrace a body and therefore also to touch a soul, to kiss a soul. The beginning of an embrace never given, the sadness of fate. Her melancholy for "feeling" ... and she, absorbed, continues that embrace in her imagination ... passion on her lips and on the rose. Half-closed eyes, dreaming of his embrace, waiting for his familiar voice and breathing.

And relaxed, she thinks ... what awaits at the end of the stairs?, one day that uncertainty will unveiled, the secret will be revealed. For now, the ascent is hard, steeper, tired ... even sometimes there is no desire to continue going up the steps.
This fatigue is represented by the lemons and their bitterness, lemons are bitter; The climb has many troubles. Perhaps, will you be there at the end ?, when you have not even accompanied me up. I climb alone most of the time.
I do not believe that happiness is represented in someone or something in particular, that it can be materialized in having or possessing something concrete: happiness could be contained in moments, short but happy ones.
Most of us are possessive, we want to own people or things, and that makes us more slaves and dependents, worse inside.
The climbing equals life. It's hard to make the effort, it's hard to live.
Will you be there at the top of the stairs?
When you never accompanied me, you left me alone ... silence between me and you.
Happiness is hidden inside moments, in time, it never materializes in forms.
Happiness could be the smile of a son, or gray clouds that huddle in the sky.
Keep climbing...

Relaxation is achieved with a single detail in the middle of nothing.

A little noise in the middle of a total silence. With the shaking of our hair in the soft breeze or the slightest rubbing of a fabric on our skin. I've always liked to find a quiet place, with enough silence, to escape and relax, but not far from daily life around me. A bench in which to sit and watch afternoon passing, to read, to close our eyes, to image and think about the things we cherish in our soul and thoughts  ... no matter people who go from one place to another with their routines. There's peace in stopping and looking at how everything works and moves around, making us more aware of ourselves as people and as part of this great universe. That image of the woman, "With a Book in her Hands" has become fixed in my mind. I've gazed quietly at my surroundings and seen them in thousand lights and a hundred weathers.  

A book, stillness, eyes closed or gaze lost, silence and soft noises that break through... all this is very familiar to me, I have spent a lot of time with a book in my hands, sitting, reading or thinking or perhaps looking at my surroundings and imagining what life is like for others. My favorite place has always been a library, where one can borrow and study. There're many people, but at the same time there's no one. Almost anything can be heard. In that artificial silence, as a paradox there's much peace, relaxation of the body, of the mind and a sort of spiritual reconciliation. Any slight sound, the passing of pages of a book, the noise of a few steps, a pen that presses and writes on paper ... those minimal noises in silence are able to blow our relaxation.

My relaxation begins at the nape of my neck, but not near my shoulders, located in the area that is next to the head, the uppermost part of the neck. I have always thought that this zone has a life of its own and when something activates it, when it starts to work ... we can totally relax, like starting to walk on a path of happiness.

I've spent many hours sitting with a book in my hands, much time of my life, in silence ... in a park, on a bench ... so long that I do not want those moments to be forgotten and the memories related to them. The sound of falling water has a great power of relaxation. I like to hear in the silence as a small stream of water falls. In a small aquarium that I have, at night I hear the filtered water falling  ... I almost always delay the time to go to sleep, because that slight noise in the middle of the silence, is a trigger ... in the nape that shoots my happiness.

The window exists, always halfway between us and our perception of reality.

The great meaning or lesson would be to be able to understand that one does not choose the window pane through which to look at and thus apprehend our surroundings. It could be a mistake to believe that it's straightforward to stay behind that piece of glass that we wrongly always hope to choose, to change it as we feel to. After having assumed this basic pre-established role, the following key point is to learn that what is really tragic is the fact that we do not choose "through where" we can gaze or perceive. It would therefore be a predestined nature. I'm encouraged to accept as true that everything predestined can be changed to some extent ... or maybe not!. It may not be possible. That would be the great advantage or tragedy, depending on our judgement. Pure scenery displays itself sometimes the same, it remains altered, every now and then boiling or full of life. At times, it's static ... only delighting our senses. Its beauty could be described as unalterable, as constantly ready or just displayed in front of us. It flows with or without us, into something that has been measured and referred to as "time".

The woman has almost an anguished gesture, because to a certain extent she's being aware that she looks at reality through her own window pane and feeling at that moment anxious to realize that she can not look through a different one. She is fully aware that others, each one embracing life through their own window panes, building their own bit of personal truth, are developing parallel to her. It could be a great wealth or an authentic struggle, desperation or anxiety to understand.

You who are staring at ... through which window pane are you apprehending life?.

You who have not even been able to choose it, it will be difficult for you to change or try.

Inner peace is attained when one realizes that there're many different pane glasses behind which can be observed. One is not better, nor worse than another. They are unlike. Do not try to make someone, other than you, look through your glass. You would only hurt the other one, who may not even be prepared to look through. The woman in a minute has realized, with some uneasiness, that each way is different and in front of her ... the air is still the same, the sky is serene as it should be, colours are the same, time of day is as supposed to be.

I'm prone to consider that when one is aware of the existence of the window, halfway between life and oneself; One can have an answer to his/her own existence. She does not change her window pane and even more ... it's about that she could not either.

No one can change.

La Benancia (c) Laura Marco

Next to the warmth of the rocks, side by side, she's falling asleep. Gradually she surrenders and goes ahead into the realm of dreams, where there is nothing negative, no hate, no ambition, no lies, no cruelty ... any negative feelings, so common on Earth. She puts aside what she does not like, all turned into a vision in front of her eyes, similar to the fury of the waves, the crudeness of the rough sea. Feeling safe on the shore, letting others fight their own battles.

She does not feel that she has to fight for anything, it does not make any sense now.
Let the sea be the sea and let the heat of the rocks and that of her own body, help her to rest. A sweet warmth begins to extend from her shoulders to the nape and then the jaw starts relaxing... the mind is less analytical, it stops working, everything slows down.
It... "could be a dream"... and not really a reality...

Time for relaxing. It's nice to play with the beautiful petals of roses, and with a beautiful garter belt too ...

The grey fog of early morning closed off the shore and the sharp-edged rocks from the rest of the world. Each time she fretfully descended to the water, on her way through the cliff, a difficult descent, her eyes were searching for the signal of her familial objects, floating over here and there ... indications that messages ... hidden in those bright containers were arriving in time.
Who threw them into the water at the other end? she did knew it!
A rain of colors was pouring out in front of her eyes. All in her was anxiety, an unbound communication spread along this limitless sea.

The necks of the bottles and their shy corks once before her sight, ignited her imagination with the most sweetest pleasures.

Reading was like feeling, somehow. Feeling was indeed like reading. She was a real victim of that dark sea.

Bottles floated playfully among the waves, laughing at the bravura of the sea, due to the little air volume and low density, enough to let them survive and reach the woman's hands, arriving to her eager imagination.

She couldn't divide that time up and say exactly how all began, this happened one day and that the next, no longer had a concrete notion of time, guessing that things would go on like this forever. Sat there, her eyes narrowed, looking away self-consciously, "Maybe, more bottles are coming", she said.

That day, holding the message, she looked timid and sort of like she was afraid of never receiving more . Her special ability to walk barefoot on the rocks was unusual, skill to find a gap and even to sleep in that position. In her, now were nesting the customs of an animal, full of reserve, constantly fleeing, fearful.

Then something happened between the sea and her, lately she does not know who is writing anymore, she got to thinking that someone seemed to be making a big joke all the time, leaving her alone and with nothing for her.
With nothing.

Curiously, the more one looks at the woman, the more she reminds us of "a symbol of victory", with her arm raised, quite defiant.
More reminds us of a "Lady of Liberty".
The paper, grasped in her hand, seems like a torch, burning alike her hair.
What does this crazy woman do in a cliff?

If at the end, she'll return home alone, scared of the sea. With nothing.
Only she and her freedom.

I've entitled it, "The Pearl", evidently because it's hanging over her neck ... but in reality one can not know where the real jewel is: whether hung or inside herself, or in the different things that she does. At first glance, it could be the corner of any house, any curtain or any small picture. Not the same case for my family, neither for me, it's more than that. I've chosen the most luminous corner of a family house, where we've been since children, since I have my memories, every summer to enjoy holidays. I know that for those who recognize every detail, it'll have a special charm. I made the shot of the place with a warm light, late afternoon, the truth is that with much peace around me and tranquility, because only wind and birds singing could be heard.

"Qui manducat meam carnem, et bibit meum sanguinem, habet vitam æternam"

I always tend to write a lot about each image, in this case ... I leave it to the free interpretation of those who will contemplate it. To reflect on the message in silence or share their point of views if desired.

The message can be interpreted in many ways. For me, it mainly implies ... what would it mean to consider things from a woman's point of view? Why do we inherit everything orchestrated and directed by men? Yes ... men may worship women, but sometimes in a way that suffocates, then being relegated to a second place. In the time of the Romans, women did not even have any names of their own, they were called with the surname of the father ... I have enjoyed making this image, I have worked as fast as I could, Holy week is just over, but sooner or later here I'm publishing it, for those who could have expected to look at it.

The first feeling we have when contemplating the ruins of what once was a great fortress, is that of time, the power of the passage of time remains strongly engraved in our minds ... but not in the form of any longing, nor sadness, nor awe, not necessarily. Different feelings come over us by looking at weathered rocks, wearing away,  and inspecting cracks ... maybe it could be described as a taste of conquest, as being able to get what one wants, to think that there's nothing impossible, that everything sooner or later succumbs, falls inexorably; That one can break through the most stubborn spirits, the strongest ones, the most difficult situations, that one should never say to oneself any "no", or any "impossible." It's about fighting every day till the end, methodically.

There's not much left of what was an imposing defensive tower, which was part of a fortified complex, strategically located: "Castillo de los Peñascales" of Muslim period. At that moment, although crowned by a gray sky, but with overpowering views over the whole valley.

Seated in the crack, the first feeling of being a silent witness of how the most unshakable has fallen down, broken down ... is lost, is evaporated.

And a frightening idea makes its way through the thread of my thoughts, with fear ... I consider if finally, I will not be breaking myself.

If everything will not be a mirage that laughs at me, an overwhelming reflection of myself just broken.

The wear and tear of the daily struggle for what one wants, the battle continues, but ends all in an Emotional Crack perhaps ... within oneself. Do I fight against stubbornness, arrogance, the inevitable, the immovable, the unchangeable? ... Or am I opening cracks, only pain, breaking myself?

The doubt and the breadth of the struggle, understood in both directions, is overwhelming.
The doubt remains in suspense, within me.

Relentlessly, the soft rain was hitting the roof, threatening to enter through some of the holes already present in the old wooden structure. That was being an April with mild temperatures, not really a cold one and even less being sheltered inside the house, beside the heat of the sizzling fire. That day, the sounds of rain and those of fire rivaled in beauty, very difficult to decide which one to listen to. Fine drops continued to fall with their monotonous but endless rhythm, filling the dry land with new life, and hoarse thunders from time to time, were the real kings of the morning.

She did not dislike that dryness that most of the year surrounded her home and her own life, because almond trees and their bodies in each season had a different dance, dark and sinister trunks then and now elegant branches began to dress in gala, full of flowers, too beautiful for that sort of landscape, so their life there, was very ephemeral.

That haunting rain ... the rain is a blessing!, it's a reason for joy that was celebrated by cooking the food par excellence of a rainy day, a delicious "gachasmigas". She had wangled with dry firewood, which was always in the sheltered backyard, safe from dampness and strong nocturnal dew. Tied with her rope, she comfortably carried it inside, near the fireplace.

That morning, as she unravelled it, to revive the fire, her mind was lost hearing the soft sounds that caressed all around her, victim of smell of the damp earth or wet fennel, her body, mind and senses followed the rhythm of that rainy day, that day of jubilation on earth. At times, she worked and advanced, suddenly she stopped for a moment with her mind totally absorbed, truly she did not know very well where, perhaps far from there, mentally reviewing all the sunsets and landscapes and horizon lines that her eyes had caressed since ever.

She knew what it was needed: first to stir the fire to get a few coals that would endure till the end, then heat the water and when it nearly starts boiling, then spread the flour.

She'd look for a chair in the house to be seated while she did the arduous task of cutting back and forth and a thousand times the flour until it turned into those little balls, unequal, spongy, so rich!. All would be accompanied with fried vegetables. Vegetables, cabbage and "chicharras", onions, broad beans ... certainly, because it was what land offered there.

Some drops were already coming in through the hollow of the roof, and some birds could be heard, nestled among the remains of reeds and plasterwork, waiting for the storm to be over.

All would be in time, by the time they got back home, from the fields ... she could be calm, unhurried, enjoying each step, it was like a rain rite, that way she always has felt it. She'd like us to hear as the ladle strikes the iron pan, soon she'll begin to beat constantly with her little hand, maybe the ladle too big for her; she'd want us to see how the flames want to get inside too, she would like not to be alone at the time ... or yes, maybe yes! ... because she does not feel alone, in fact surrounded by a thousand and one details, who lived with her each day, danced with her in the party of the rain.

Days ago, walking along a lonely road by the river, I found a woman sheltered by the shade of trees, lying on a bench. She was of a mature age, not a young woman. The situation caught my attention because she was not seated, she was lying face-up on the bench, looking up at the sky and with her sight lost, totally absorbed in the immensity above her.
When she became aware of my presence, she was perhaps a little uncomfortable, but realizing that I was on my way, she did not move.
I felt that for her, this was a moment of great intimacy, it seemed that she was contemplating her own life in the sky. In every cloud that passed, maybe she was finding one of her dreams.
The sky full of dreams, of stories and life seen as a continuous succession of clouds.
Since that day, I feel a tremendous desire to lie on my back to watch my own life, my dreams ... to remember how I have been fighting for each one of them.
Few given to me, only the most important ones: to be alive and educated. The rest ... nobody has given my dreams as a present to me. Nobody has painted my dreams.
I've always been a fighter.

In this scene, several conversations are taking place at the same time, which are attempts to show how many times we are judged in our life, really constantly without even realizing it. In the background, the father talks to the son, this would be the purest and perfect conversation, in the foreground, the woman speaks with a presence inside the confessional and finally, this image is speaking to anyone who stops to observe it just for a few moments .

Many times we judge and are judged by people who are even more full of faults and bad deeds than ourselves or vice versa. We observe everything around us with our own moral, our principles, our learned social norms or even our rage, envy, greed or ambition. All these molds, we fit them, again and again, in those things that surround us, people or actions and sincerely ... we make others suffer, we are unjust and at the same time we suffer ourselves.

As we realize that we judge and are judged constantly, we end up giving up. Giving up ... activities and friendships, just to be able to find at peace with ourselves. This form of social behavior, in large measure, leads us to ... a certain loneliness.

The conversation taking place in the background, between father and son, in the end ends up being the most rejected as an example of the perfect social model. Who wants to be like people say we have to be and not as we really are? In the end nobody wants to be the perfection of anything. It tires, it is boring and lacks creativity and authenticity. The conversation had by the woman and the "presence" inside the confessional, is the most challenging and real, which is given at every moment of the day to day.

She is being judged for her bad deeds, by someone staged as a "red halo", synonymous of imperfection. Red, in this case, is a synonymous of evil, with flames burning forever in hell. There is no doubt, that ... whoever judges, has greater imperfections than anyone and is not the one to do that. I remember when I was a child and I still had a religion, that when I arrived at the confessional, I had to "invent" sins because I honestly could not find what I could say to that person, I did not have any sins I could tell. Thus, I took my religion book, sought the best considered sins, grandiloquent and they were what I said, in sum ... I sought the perfection of one's own evil. Amazing!.

Day by day it becomes a manipulation of one another. And finally, this conversation that keeps the image with you, where everyone must draw their own conclusion. Perhaps in the end, the balance is... in a mixture of "freedom and solitude".

The title of... Amnesia... I have used it because it would not be bad some amnesia as a good medicine in life. Every so often, we take a sip of amnesia ... and ... again to be happy. The expression of the face, her eyes, the feeling of well-being, some fondness ... all that stands out in the atmosphere of this portrait. It's a kind of little "reset."
I hope you'll like it, kisses.

Processing an image can be frustrating sometimes ... because it's mainly a search, not knowing very well of what. Perhaps of certain colors, some pasted/pasty zones or highlighted areas that best adapt to the feeling or the idea of that moment. There're some compositions that once finished, I like them immediately and others that leave me with a certain uncertainty and maybe this is one of them ... anyway, I do not like to always do the same, always using the same colors or the same formula, That is due to my restless spirit.

For me, photography is a way of experimentation, of constant challenges ... there're other people who put it this way: "look how well I can make!", I do not ... it's not my way of being, nor my style; I present it to others, by proposing: "look!, this is how I feel, look! this is my inside, look at this! it's what hurts me ..."

I have frozen memories, every day they freeze a little more. It's not my fault, it is life itself...

Frozen path. All my love, all my kisses... frozen memories.

Iced heart. Life goes on...

Dreamed garden, home of sin, origin of desire ... since the beginning of time.
In an unknown place, sweetness is lodged in warm lights.
Beautiful Eden, you fill my senses with joy and happiness,
You are also the home of the Lemon of the Sin.

Everyone seek to be satisfied with the sugar of ripe oranges
But surely they will not quench their thirst.
Beautiful Eden, you also hide the object of desire.
Always wrapped in sun warmth, eternal spring, safe haven.

Everyone wants to grab sweet oranges, but they will not quench their thirst.
Sweet and sour lemon, this beautiful Eden is also your home.
Hidden from the soft rays of light, you look in amazement at the World.
Beautiful Eden, full of juicy fruits, hung like jewels in the branches.

She reaches out her hand and wants to take the sweet orange, then to taste it.
Its juice will go down her palate, running free in her throat.
With this, she will fill her longing to live. The stigma of the original sin.
Amazing garden you are also the home of ... my... Lemon of the Sin.

(c) Laura Marco

Blessed is the one who owns nothing or better yet who feels that is in a blank state, that does not carry unnecessary lumps in the back that make us slaves at the end.
They couldn't hear the symphony of life, better to carry empty hands. I always want to look at the infinite sky, or the starry night, in a silence of virtue. Life is too short and the air so sweet to be breathed.

Let me stay here for a while. Life is very short ... I want to look and see smiles like stars. We all belong to this beautiful garden ... if we know where we come from and we are able to get excited with a sunset, stepping on bare stones, smelling the earth, would be the best transition to another place.

Girl! Keep looking at your sky, happy the one who feels that owns nothing. Blessed is the one who carries empty hands.

The crowded sounds of tuned metal pipes came to caress the back of her neck, like metallic whispers announcing a new dawn, a new time for hope and meanwhile the hoarse tubas gave solemnity to the scene.

   The gentle heat didn't come from the setting sun, nor from the warm rays that were almost hidden in the horizon. There! Her gaze was directed in the opposite direction, towards where she really felt warmth and vibrations of something quite similar to life ... Life called her and it was now in her hands.

She was amazed, that piece of bone emitted real heat and had a powerful sense of presence. The forgotten path she had chosen to rest was ideal, there was no distraction, only silence and peace in her mind and heart. There, without laziness, she tried to understand how it was possible to feel that well-being upon her hands. Her lips barely opened when she whispered gleefully:

   "I know... I'm not alone... and maybe you've got something to say to me ... I feel you on my hands warmer than the sun and all its strength and your bright light enchants my senses, tell me what do you want?, what do you want from me?"

   But the skull did not answer, did not say a word. It alone was silent between her and eternity, as a shut door.

   "Your heat comes to me like waves, like vibrations hitting the skin of a drum, I'm tired of not finding paradise here, tell me... what's on the other side? You're bringing me light where only darkness reigns".

And yet again, the worn and forgotten bone, weighed more and more in her hands and it shone with more force, as if with that light it wanted to supply the lack of dialogue that could not maintain with the woman, its lights were constantly changing in different warm tones as if turned in a kaleidoscope.

   She was insistent and constant and only asked the same question:

   "Tell me, tell me ... you who have been there, beyond this world, where is happiness?, here? there? should I wait till I pass by and meet you? Here I could only find emptiness, even coldness, lack of communication ... scarcely good feelings ... it's only a constant struggle, perhaps you can guide me ..."

   Then, she thought she'd heard:

   "The truth has only one way". The skull was turning into red now.

   "What had that foolish bone said? That's hard to find, truth accompanied by love?, by honesty? ... not virtues that are lavished on this side, I can not believe what you're saying."

   At the end she was feeling more and more tired and simply stopped talking to it, no words needed ... in fact, the real communication had been that heat, they'd transmitted to each other. That was enough. For long she was not even sure if she had heard those words and the whole picture was still strong with her. Still floating around, was that path the only proper way?.

   With sunset behind the horizon ... when the last ray had hidden and no longer shone, everything ceased. Her piece of bone no longer emitted heat nor glittered.

   The pain wrapped around her heart and there was a splendor of isolation in the whole scene. Sadness of thinking that all communication had been a mere illusion. She was no longer certain of anything.

- Don't want to carry water every day, I do not want to do it forever ...
The mallard went freely down the channel and she looked at the animal with a little envy, in her daydream she also floated on a piece of wood, going to the unknown.

-   I do not want to carry more this jug, I'm tired.

In fact, it'd not always be the same.

- Won't last forever!,-  she repeated to herself.

Someday it will change, she knew.

The waterwheel squeaked in its tiresome turn and at each new glance, the duck was moving away more and more, dancing in the water.

It was not an animal or any shadow that was following her all the time, now she had seen it well, it was a woman! A woman ... who walked slowly but seemed sure of her steps. At that very moment, she did not know what to think, she had to get her breath back and to decide how to get rid of that annoying presence. Anyway, she was less afraid, now that she had perceived well ... she heaved and felt something similar to relief inside her veins, but only lasted a moment. What harm could she do? she finished by supposing the same one that she might do in return, the approaching woman looked tired!. It was never easy for her to think quickly, to make decisions at the last minute and that shelter, that corner of the wall would only hide her for a few minutes, damn it! there she was! Just a few steps away.

Almost a few steps between the two, so anxiety did not let her see or think clearly, she did not distinguish the walking woman's features and nevertheless there was something very familiar about her, and...  let's see!... she was dressed very much alike, yes! Clothes looked like hers, the red of his woolen coat with which she protected herself from the moisture of that early morning.

The Indian fig opuntia attracted all her attention and it did not let her to concentrate. She did not want to run away any more, or hide anymore. The time to create distances was ending by moments.

By winking her eyes, she saw more clearly, at last she breathed smoothly, in silence without any agitation. At last she thought about leaving her shelter and looking for a moment would clear everything up for her ...

Just when their faces met, her heart began to beat wildly as she saw herself reflected in that woman. The voice began to pour out by screeching through her parched throat:

- "It's me in front of me! ... Are you me? ... Who are you? It's not possible! Damn you, you're an apparition that does not leave me either by day or by night Who are you? Damn! "

She began to lose her mind by gradually staring at herself in that woman, who calmly replied:

- "I am you", why should you be afraid of me? Sooner or later we would meet.
I am your broken dreams, your failures, your fears ... I am every moment of your life that you have not liked, that you have tried to erase in some way.

I am your hidden side, the one that drowns in your throat whenever you do not like the moments lived or the decisions taken.

I am your swallowed tears, your dry cheeks, I am your angers ... in truth I am not a stranger for you. No one knows me better than you".

Suddenly, she left her hiding place and walked a few steps until she was face to face with her hidden side, very buried purposefully under innumerable layers of oblivion. Just it has come to meet her, in this Inevitable Meeting, to get her attention, to remind her that ... it could not be buried and would be forever a part of her.

Although it is hard to believe, at that instant the woman stopped wanting to flee, her features relaxed, her hands extended now pendulous ones and any tension left her body. She had no words, no fears. Tears wanted to leave her eyes and run freely down the cheeks.

His hidden side spoke again:

- "I knew the day that you wouldn't run away and would accept me. The moment we would meet face to face ... then you would start to be ..." happy "

The fog was leaving the path and the morning became clear and more present at times.

(c) Laura Marco

More than the steps one takes or decisions one may make, it's far important with those whom one walks hand in hand ... who one loves, in whom one trusts. Footprints that are left behind are thoughtful and premeditated, therefore they lack selflessness and nobility. Whoever takes our hand, it is only a matter of chance, of conjunctural situations unrelated to ourselves, as if destiny had placed them at our side, without us deciding anything. There is more authenticity.

Everyone gives too much importance on the steps walked one after the other, that is a flat subject, without three-dimensionality, it becomes necessary to look up and embrace the panorama from the right perspective ... and to value what one has known, loved and cherished.

Luck is not for the one who looks for it, luck is for the one who finds it along the way :)
I've always desired to be able to contemplate my life from above, that means for me, not to lose "the emotional dimension of life", for the sake of some material concern. Don't ever let it happen.

The dazzling star sank without remedy to the bottom of the deep sea and she didn't seem willing to loose it, held tight in her hands, embraced in her breast, near her heart. In the middle of this huge chilly liquid mass, it still gave a strong warmth that allowed her to live, half hidden in its shelter, half hypnotized by its bright light. All her senses were full. So far, from the beginning of her assumed knowledge this loved star's been shining high in the sky ... till the moment arrived, she caught it for her, so she soon thought:

- "we'll always be together", made for one another -.

She believed that there was truth in every star and drowned slowly with glee in imitation of wavering flames.

Days passed by in that harmonious comfort, the chill of the water was in her limbs, the fear of the gloomy future in her heart; until one piercing thought began to hurt her, finishing by asking herself:

- "Why not to release since it weighs so much and only is drowning me down?, couldn't I endure a lifetime?" -, the star gave no relief, nor answer, had nothing to propose, perpetuating the values of obliviousness with a deaf dumbness.

- "Is it a logical reaction to continue embracing it as always? or an acceptance of the contented ones?" -, with all those painful thoughts, it took her to the bottom of the sea.

Her eyes stared up at the surface like a sightless eye and the forgotten sky somehow pushed down, quite tyrannical.

In that liquid silence, strange to her known sensations, weird to her previous life, oppressing her more and more, all was turning into a greater strangeness. She still did not realize, how tight she was holding and what she was doing, therefore in a silence and hidden way, happily they were falling to the deepest bottom.

- "Star of the dawn, you're mine, now star of my sorrowed depths" - ...

- "Alas! stop glowing, cease your sparkled love because one day I must let you go, so that you return to heaven again and I can return home" -.

She was drowning each day a little, without being aware of what was happening even so she did not abandon her star, the celestial body weighed  too much, even finishing by being oppressive.

Its place was not the water, its home was the sky above. No longer for her. Life is tragic.
All around remained in silence, all around was sweet peace inside the sea. Elusive remembrances of a gone glorious past.

- "Couldn't be with you infinitely day and night until I may die or be eternally a ... Virgin of the Sea, a dead virgin of a bottomless sweet blue sea-.

- "Is it us?, is it us? ... or is it me alone? -.