These are moments that flow, one after another, like running water, without being able to stop them.

On that path directing to the fountains of life, she knew that nothing would stay still for long, neither happiness remains eternal, nor sadness nests in our lives forever. Ways leading to life which runs without ever stopping, wonderful, tastefully water that irrigates wisdom....

That day, in her hands she carried a jug to fill with the liquid element, but our nature is also a container waiting to be filled, human nature has that deep and painful need to feel filled with experiences or hopes, like a jug that fills up in the fast-flowing stream.

And yet, there are no stones on the path that hurt feet so much for not continuing walking, nor cold so strong that gives up moving forward.

There in our picture, the fresh air entered through her nose and filled her lungs. She felt happy to be looking at her destiny, at the end of that corridor, to have found the path to reach her place.

Even if it was hard to walk on the stones, carrying a heavy container, life always rewards in the end... with that soft tinkling, that gurgling of the water flowing, of life passing by. Life is a succession of amazing, disturbing moments.

Have courage to reach your happiness and know how to wait for it.

In the end, she said to the water:

- “Here I am, I always heard you from afar, a sonorous flow that made me happy every moment, gave me strength to continue and arrive”, “I have no intention of leaving”.

The water answered her, cold and at the same time reviving: - “I have been waiting for you for a long time; this is your place”, “may serenity fill your life, drink at last” -.

Her hand barely had the strength to hold the mug, but she was on it. In trying to drink that mug of hot milk, more out of convenience for her health than out of a real desire to eat, those lax, wrinkled fingers were warmed by the warmth and proximity to the metal container. There had come a time when I could no longer appreciate any significant changes in her, it was a stable situation frozen in time, captured in that position of her, sitting in front of breakfast, all that was giving me the false sensation of eternity.

I used to spend time with my grandmother, precisely because I knew that I wouldn't have her forever. They were those moments of asking already known questions, though already knew the answers, but it was a kind of protocol or ceremony when meeting again: -“how are you, grandma? Do you eat well?”-...

All the room was permeated by the smell of the toasted cereals that were in that milk, kind of smell that reminded me of her. In the meanwhile, we talked, I listened to her, but I was very intrigued by the fact that from time to time she would acquire that lost look, a look that rests, as if she were sleeping, but with her eyes wide open. Contemplating my grandmother in that state, made me feel sad, because she seemed more lost between two worlds, between the current day and her actual past, between life and the unknown.

Many times, it was a matter of inquiring into the cunning of doing such an abstraction: - “What are you thinking, Grandma? “-, I had no idea where that gaze lost in time would walk.

And from time to time, she could put in her mouth a piece of bread that she had dipped in milk, sort of grandparents' breakfast; while there were all kinds of pastries, refined industrial sweets... she was like all grandparents were: she broke pieces of bread that he soaked in milk.

In those moments, I relaxed myself in that special house, with those characteristic smells around, smells from the past... that dim light, those potted plants that refreshed the atmosphere of the rooms.

He fact is that, I knew that my grandmother was not forever, that I would not have her all the time and looking at her face, her lost look, I thought to myself: - “this is not forever” - and so I tried to record those images in my mind. In a way to be able to carry them with me at all times.

What intrigued me the most? Her lost look... I didn't know at times where my grandmother was, at what moment in her life, but there was one thing I was sure of, my grandmother looked back. She was already more part of her past than her own present.

Sometimes it is convenient to look backwards in time, thinking about all those moments in which we have been complete, remember those people who walked our same path, who we were lucky enough to meet.

The brain is strange, its curves, its connections, its way of storing experiences, but there is something certain and that is: opposed to complexity of the brain, there are feelings, so strong, so pure, easier to understand and with a potential that sometimes slips out of our hands.

It's interesting to look back in time.

The ears were deafened, there was nothing and no one around. No one was working near the fields, there were no cars, and yet her ears felt deafened, albeit slightly. Almost sweetly deafened.

Who was making that noise? Who was imitating the sounds that shaped her thoughts?.

That afternoon, walking among the pomegranate trees, she looked around her, but she could not find the cause of her discomfort. However, she realized that, when crossing the trees and branches, she occasionally felt very close to them, as if embraced by the leaves. Sometimes she couldn't tell if it was her hair flying in the wind or the leaves dancing.

That old sensation came again, she was not happy that way, looking for her place and not feeling completely calm. With every step she took, she began to hear answers, in the form of whispers, and certainly, it wasn't the birds, nor any small animal that walked along the ground. It was all about the leaves, the answers were them!... they told her: - “you are not happy this way”, “you are not happy” - and like the repetitive notes of a bass, those sounds hummed in her mind, more similar to the beat of one’s heart.

Her heart always accompanied her. Even though feeling a little fear at that moment and she thought that if she continued on that path, she would find what she was lacking. In this sense she couldn't pass up that opportunity. The situation didn't cause her pain. It was almost a dreamed peace.

She seemed like a woman lost in her thoughts, on her path, keeping the pulse of uncertain steps. - “We don't want to hurt you”, - “we love you” - was the eternal rustling of the leaves.

Suddenly, her heart felt sorry, when she realized that she could not help them, they would fall, they would fall forever to the ground, leaving those branches that were their home. Between whispers and tender touches, they said goodbye to the woman, telling her: - "do not be sad, we are waiting for you beyond time, beyond the puddle on the floor, which will shelter us in the last moments, do not be afraid, because that is the Life, you are not alone."

And the noises of those bass notes sounded just like her heart, with strength and good rhythm.

It would have been difficult for any viewer to understand the symbiosis of the woman and the leaves in that moment. Aeternum.

In everyday scenes, it is normal to find two doors since the scene enters through one, develops and exits through another. Could be the most desirable course of life, because everything that tries to last forever becomes tiring, sometimes difficult to bear. That soft air and its insistence on entering the room were repeated, so in the end the woman left the door ajar, so that sweet afternoon freshness and smell would sneak into the living-room.

She had spent the entire week sewing on her dress, her dance dress... an excuse to enjoy and dance and dance… giving way to the overflowing joy that comes to us in these short moments in life. Since we can't hold life back, let's at least enjoy it without any measure, or so she was thinking at that precise moment. To do this, she had provided herself with a red beautiful comb and she was just missing the rose, better several roses to decorate her hair.

In one spot on that room, she was absorbed as she was in her thoughts, little by little she was going over every detail she would need for that afternoon of dancing. Aware of how fast life is, knowing how ephemeral each moment is, she didn't even bother to fix that painting that had fallen off, that small crack that had made its way into the wall. She knew that everything material was condemned to abandonment. However, feelings should never be condemned to abandonment.

The cold pot, the unlit firewood, the forgotten fireplace spoke of the speed of the moment... implacable in its spirit, why be meticulous and detailed if time erases everything?

Easy to imagine how her happiness entered through one door, with the singing of the birds, the warmth of the sun and soon it would leave through the other door, therefore, she was willing to make the best of that moment. That's why she smiled when she thought she had all her things ready and she clicked her heels on the floor several times, several rhythmic taps with the heel on the tile filled the room with joy. Almost a competition with the chirping of the sparrows outside. The best was that she was lucky not to feel tired to dance, and hit the floor and clap... but she would do it wrapped in her best suit, her prettiest.

At that moment there were no doors for her, neither entrance nor exit... it was her moment, her well-deserved happiness.

Happy to know that her dress would fit like a glove, tight to her body. She had taken care to sew it perfectly, because it would carry her happiness. From time to time, as if she didn't want to, she would glance askance at the door that led to that unknown dark room, wishing she didn't have to enter through it, but knowing that sooner or later she would, passing that threshold into the mysterious.

Click and move your feet, clap and move your hands... was the only thing her mind was telling her to do.

Let's happiness run free for a while.

Of course, she was convinced that she needed more scrolls to be able to continue writing and she was ready to leave home and look for a store to find those parchments that she needed. 

The sun was not very strong, it was not even hot at that time of year. Weather allowed us to wear sandals and keep our feet cool and that sensation also gave some freshness to her thoughts, she walked looking at the tips of her sandals, the tips of her toes and how in small taps they were advancing the path in search of what she needed. 

As she turned that corner and entered the street, she soon noticed that strange smell, a slightly unpleasant smell, but she knew it was exactly what she needed and was very pleased when she saw that man working a piece of skin right in front of the door of his house, at that moment with a crescent-shaped tool, he was removing the remains of hair and meat that still remained attached to that skin so that in the end it would be a fabulous parchment. 

Undoubtedly, it was a very commendable job and she was full of praise for the person who did it and said: - "I really like this future parchment and I am interested in writing on those beautiful future scrolls"-. Sheets that would last a long time, hundreds and even thousands of years, everything she wanted to say, would remain written. 

Well, the man, the tanner, that craftsman listened to her attentively and with great respect and told her that, although his resources were very limited and he could only do certain things and he needed time, not having all the facilities at his disposal, but certainly! he might try to offer her a parchment or two so that she could write. Without hesitation, she agreed with the tanner that she was very interested in the product that he could offer her. 

She thought of returning home at that moment, but then she realized that that street of artisans, of producers extended downwards and that it was also a street dedicated to the world of writing, to parchments, to inks, to quill pens... to everything that could help her in her performance, so she did not hesitate, she did not doubt it for a moment and she continued walking in that tireless and insatiable search. She gave rhythm to those graceful and pretty sandals that took her where she wanted to go. 

With the clicking of the heels, in a good rhythm, she found another place. Another trade that caught her attention because several scrolls were already exposed directly in a distance, where you could see them and they were also decorated with flowers all around, the entire margin of the scroll was decorated with beautiful flowers, collected by a beautiful lady in the woods around and that beautiful lady with long hair, she did everything as well! She made those parchments that were not made of animal skin, the unpleasant smell that the woman with the quill pen found in the first tannery was not there and that bad smell was now replaced by the aroma of those flowers that the merchant stuck to that vegetable mixture that she sold as a parchment. 

The woman with the quill pen was shocked. Oh wonder! The woman with the quill pen had a place for everything, everything really counted for the woman with the quill pen. She would look for anything that suited her needs so she talked to that new clerk and she agreed that she was interested in not two flowery scrolls but uh! about ten, in this case it would be about ten vegetable scrolls all full of flower petals and scented, so she agreed with the woman that in a week she would go back to her store and buy all the scrolls. 

Leaving the store with an aroma of petals on her breath, all of her infused with perfume, with her mind in another, more pleasant dimension... she was actually very pleased because she was finding everything that attracted her and that would undoubtedly help her writing was better, of better quality without a doubt. That street of parchments continued without end and it is that even with your own eyes a few steps below there was another shop window where there seemed to be papers or parchments, she did not know very well what they were, so of course, of course, all diligent was to see, to search, to follow, to investigate without any limit, without any pressure of her conscience, simply following the desire of her instinct. In almost a complete madness of hedonism. 

Arriving at what seemed like the last store, she found some wonders, oh! There were dozens of scrolls, they weren't really skins but they were such precious and successful imitations made of a vegetable paste and by the way they also had petals attached to them, but the saleswoman who sold them or the one who called herself a "graceful craftswoman" also she included feathers, yes, she would really put necklaces and feathers attached to the edges of the parchments and even more... she felt capable of writing whatever the writer wanted to write, in this case the woman with the quill pen. The merchant didn't intend to actually create the content, but she was going to use the written content she was given to write for the store. She could, she already had many sharp quill pens of all colours and she knew how to do many things. In this situation, the woman with the quill pen, delighted and amazed at her most, made a large order very gratefully to the last store where the parchments were vegetables, they were full of petals, feather necklaces and also the saleswoman was going to write with ink from Orient, all what she was asked. 

All grateful the woman with the quill pen made her way to her house. The afternoon was already falling and she was enraptured in her thoughts when, when she reached the end of that street of parchments, which was also all straight, everything was seen, everyone knew, it was so when she reached the end that she saw the tanner again, when that unpleasant smell of tanning the leather of those parchments reached her nose again, then she realized what her development had been, what that progress had been and she had gone from feeling fulfilled with those two leather parchments to making an order of dozens of parchments almost oriental in their content, flowery and pearly, and she thought of saying to the tanner: -“Look, excuse me, I already have another interest!-, but since the street was straight and everything was visible, everything was seen and everything was known... she realized how the tanner simply avoided her gaze, he did not even look at her, nor did he speak a single word. He ignored her, erased her from his life and she understood at that moment everything she had done and she understood the tanner's reaction. She also knew that she had no choice to change that situation, so with some regret at seeing how the tanner avoided her presence, she went to her house and locked herself in the living room. 

At that time, a sentence of hers was going around in thoughts and it made her feel bad in a certain way. The idea was the following: “she knew that she had leaned against the hottest ember”, that she had been dishonest and had a lack of integrity and deep down she would have wished that the first tanner had not avoided her gaze, nor her presence. The result of her actions had left her stunned. 

With that discomfort, she was at home. She went to her room and got ready to make herself comfortable. A simple shawl around her shoulders, at that moment she didn't have the mood for too many superficial things. In the soft, low lighting…everything around her was tinged with shadows. On the shelf, there was only a small scroll left, but she had an idea and that sheet would be enough. She felt the need to write a statement, “her Declaration of Principles”. 

She had to concentrate and give it a form, write down the way in which she would decide to conduct herself, behave in front of others and society. 

She took the quill pen and began to write. They were her principles: words such as honesty, empathy, integrity, kindness… would shine there and take their place... a big smile was drawn on her mouth now. 

She thought she was doing the right thing. Within a week she would collect all the vegetable parchments, scented with petals and necklaces, already written with oriental inks that she had commissioned from the last artisan. She couldn't do anything else. 

Though she knew in the bottom of her heart that that elusive gaze, the feeling of rejection of the tanner would last forever. That certainty sowed sadness in her heart. 

She had earned it hard.

It had already happened to her when she was approaching that older man who placidly braided esparto grass sitting at the door of his home. The street was quiet and the chair was quite simple as well, with a bulrush seat, already half broken by time. As I was saying, she had already had that strange feeling that involved looking into the eyes of calm people, not necessarily older people, but looking into the eyes of serene people... there it was... it was that lost expression, everlasting gaze, focused on a point or place that is not very well known, either what it was nor where it was.

At that moment, it meant a joy and a charm to see that man in the late afternoon, braiding his esparto basket and she could observe him calmly because he did not put any interest in her presence. He just did his work and besides he hardly needed to look at interlacing. The woman spent time carefully observing those lost eyes, which attracted her interest like powerful magnets. Where was he looking at? It didn't seem to be looking at anywhere.

And I ask the reader... what can there be beyond a portrait? There is definitely a lot of life behind it. In this case, one can stop to observe the simplicity of the fabric, rustic, worn or those who do not know, it may be strange to see the end of a pitchfork. A tool with barely a place in today's world, a world which we have been weaving without paying hardly attention to.

Where is life, where are thoughts? certainly they are on the horizon line.

A horizon line, where is it? there is a distant line, inclined, perfect and beautiful, drawn in her tired eyes, a body that tries to rest in some way on the tips of the pitchfork, but where it does not find any peace or relief. A pitchfork does not know how to rest, it only knows how to work.

The everlasting, tired gaze, that look "that looks at, but doesn't see". One comes to the conclusion that with the passage of time people need to rest their gaze, could it be? not to observe any physical place. They are eyes that do not need to see because they are looking with the mind.

Thus, that sunset the woman was peacefully resting in pleasant and calm thoughts, rocking in them, in her memories, in moments of her life, a life that has already gone part of its way.

It might seem strange but this "looking without seeing" over time became a nuisance for her, especially when she was not alone. It happened on a day-to-day basis that when she talked to people and she needed to rest her eyes and mind, those same people turned their heads and looked behind their own backs, as if someone had arrived or something was happening around them that they didn't know. She saw in their faces the slight surprise of knowing that nothing was happening, there was no one behind their backs. At those moments, she said to herself...  – “It's that you don't walk by my own thoughts. Nor are you resting right now at the same bends in the road that I am on, that is all”-.

That afternoon, the Sun was almost going to go down on the horizon. One could look at a place or a hillside or a path and as soon as it was perfectly sunny, in minutes it was in shadows. Time flew by, the Sun was setting fast.

Just as quickly as the Sun went down, our life passes.

Over the years, people are resting in their mind and memories, perhaps in happier memories of past times or just recalling and savouring their own existence.

Es difícil imaginar cuánto ama la lluvia una persona que la siente muy pocos días al año. Imaginad esa tierra seca durante bastante tiempo y de repente, alguien deja caer un riego suave a través de los surcos secos, todo se hincha, renace y al poco tiempo salen las pequeñas semillas que había allí dormidas. Así se sentía ella, un poco dormida bajo el reino del Sol implacable, tantos y tantos días uno detrás de otro, dueño y señor de cada día.

La mujer caminaba descalza, para mojarse los pies e intentaba abstraer su mente solamente en aquella sensación de humedad bajo sus pies, caminando con precaución, porque a veces resbalaba el agua caída sobre las piedras. Ella iba hacia adelante, siguiendo un camino, pero se movía como las corcheas del swing, como avanza el blues... adelanta, pero a la vez retrocede, adelanta arrastrando, que sí, pero que no, un poco adelante, un poco atrás... todo para detener el momento de su vida en aquella fina lluvia, aquel paisaje rejuvenecido a su alrededor. Destilando vida en cada rincón.

Pasaban los instantes e iba ebria de lluvia, no habría bebida que hubiese podido elevar mejor su espíritu. Aquella lluvia la embriaga de la cabeza a los pies. Estaba tan ensimismada que no importaba hasta qué punto la humedad conseguía penetrar en su ropa o bajar su temperatura corporal. Había olvidado hasta como coger un paraguas. ¿Un paraguas? Aquello era extraño para usar, tan exótico como hubiese sido un bastón de baile o más original todavía, una fusta en su mano. Aunque sin caballo.

El mango de madera bailaba entre sus dedos un poco adormecidos, pero con el paso de los minutos cada vez eran más gráciles y dispuestos a de manera independiente, no querer hacer nada para cubrirla, cubrir su melena, su vestido... que cada vez estaban más y más mojados. Así que, misteriosamente jugaban y dejaban deslizarse el paraguas hacia atrás.

Allí, rodeada de romero, con una fragancia endiablada a su alrededor, se sentó en el montículo de piedra, dispuesta a no irse de allí, hasta que no cesara de llover. A poder llenarse de todo aquello que apenas disfrutaba. El olor de su infancia, olor a hinojo mojado: charcos y caracoles.

En algún momento debió darse cuenta de que la brújula estaba allí, la había puesto sobre el montículo, dispuesta como ella había querido para poder orientarse y encontrar la salida a aquel laberinto de sensaciones, laberinto que la tenía perdida.

Confió en que funcionase aquel magnetismo y le señalase la dirección de regreso. Aquella tarde para su sorpresa, la aguja solo señalaba hacia un lugar, hacia su corazón. Eran tan fuertes las ondas de energía que emanaban de su bienestar, que eclipsaban cualquier fuerza alrededor. Era ella y su felicidad. Era el monte y el silencio. Era la vida y la soledad. Era hacia su corazón y sus latidos hacia donde apuntaba la aguja.

Sin brújula, sin ninguna orientación cierta, solo la que su corazón le decía, al final plegó tristemente el paraguas, porque ya no llovía y se dispuso a seguir su camino. No sabía cuando regresaría otra vez aquella lluvia, ni tampoco aquella felicidad.

Cogió su chal y jugando con el paraguas como un bastón, se fue. Entre humedad, caracoles y aroma a romero. La melena llena de finas gotas de lluvia.

Cansada de caminar por la senda, su ánimo y mente se dejaron seducir por un hueco oscuro que se abría en lo alto de la ladera. Ni corta, ni perezosa dejó a un lado el estrecho camino de piedras y comenzó a subir como pudo entre rocas y arbustos, estos últimos salpicados a placer en su caprichoso lugar de enraizamiento, algunos eran muy pinchosos y a menudo su ropa quedaba enganchada.

Tuvo que soltar las pequeñas florecillas y hojas que había ido recolectando para llevar consigo, después pensaba tomarlas en una infusión bien caliente. El aroma de las infusiones la relajaba, todo eran entrar los finos hilos de vapor por su nariz y suavizaban su respiración, templando incluso su pensamiento. Tuvo que soltar todo, no podía sujetarse a las plantas para trepar, necesitaba toda la acción de sus manos, buscando un asidero entre tanta espesura y desnivel.

La sensación de saberse inclinada le mareaba un poco, pero no tardó mucho en acceder a la entrada de la cueva.

Una corriente fría salía de su interior y combinaba perfectamente con la oscuridad reinante. No quiso adentrarse mucho, le resultaba demasiado imponente aquel lugar, un poco por miedo a lo desconocido y por no querer perturbar algo sagrado que emanaba de su interior. Algo muy puro envuelto en silencio.

El fresco reinante la recompuso y como pudo se reclinó en la fría piedra para descansar un poco.

No supo cuánto tiempo permaneció dormida, al despertarse se dio cuenta de que el motivo habían sido suaves aleteos que de vez en cuando le rozaban el rostro o los brazos.

Para su sorpresa, todo el lugar se había llenado de mariposas. Grandes, pequeñas... todas ellas bailaban y jugaban suspendidas en el aire. Jugaban con giros rápidos, graciosos y sutiles.

Ella se sentía maravillada con aquella visión, hasta tal punto que parecía que su pañuelo, aquel con el que se había abrigado los hombros, comenzaba a moverse, a querer imitar aquel hermoso vuelo, tal cual fuera una gran ala.

Se sorprendió a sí misma creyéndose una mariposa. Feliz, resuelta a disfrutar del momento y del lugar. Dejó de pensar en nada, su único empeño era ser una más en aquel baile alado.

Aquella cueva no era un lugar real... esta afirmación pudiera parecer increíble al lector, pero físicamente no existía semejante espacio. No se trataba de que fuese un problema de ubicación o de percepción, tan sencillo como que se trataba de algo etéreo. ¿Tan etéreo como un sueño?.

Ubicada en la mente de cada uno, aquella cavidad era el lugar perfecto para desconectar de la realidad.

Ella solía visitar aquella cueva a menudo, sobre todo cuando sentía su mente espesa o torturada por los problemas de cada día.

Situaciones sin solución, tristezas largo tiempo sentidas y sufridas, desilusiones... Todo desaparecía cuando entraba a la tranquilidad y fresco que reinaba en aquel espacio tranquilo, una verdadera reserva mental, que se tornaba en el refugio más hermoso en sus horas más bajas.

Ella sabía que no podría ser una mariposa y sin embargo su pañuelo tomaba la ligereza y el aspecto de unas hermosas alas, dispuestas a ser desplegadas.

Podía soñar, podía quedarse suspendida en aquel vacío repleto de tranquilidad.

Allí estaba ella, serena, sus preocupaciones dejaban de existir, todo era liviano y frágil, hasta los minutos de aquel instante que se iban desgajando poco a poco. Su tez estaba lánguida y desprovista de tristeza.

Para un espectador, la mujer solo había conseguido subir unos metros montaña arriba, hasta encontrar un hueco donde quedarse dormida, acurrucada debido a su cansancio. No había nada, había un vacío espacial que se equiparaba a su vacío mental. 

No había lugar a la decepción, ni al engaño. 

Ni a la tristeza.

Reinaba el aire limpio, el vacío en el espacio.

Allí se quedó dormida el tiempo que necesitó para reponer sus fuerzas, encontrando refugio y soslayo a su corazón.

Las mariposas que volaban, no eran otra cosa que sus pensamientos serenos, separados, callados y vacíos 

Flotando en su memoria.

Todo estaba en reposo, desconectado... Hasta el momento en que se decidiese a caminar de nuevo y salir de esa cueva mental.

Como todas las tardes, comenzó a soplar ese viento, que arreciaba en un instante, como venido de la nada. El aire removió el cabello en su frente, en sus sienes. Su ropa se movía a merced de las ráfagas.

Esas caricias aéreas consiguieron despertarla.

Abrió los ojos y confundida se vio separada de la senda apenas unos metros. No sabía qué la había llevado allí, incluso necesito unos instantes que le parecieron eternos para poner sus pensamientos en orden, saber dónde estaba, qué hacía.

Aquello le preocupaba, cuando despertaba confundida.

Sin pereza, regresó a la senda y la volvió a recorrer, esta vez en sentido descendente, camino a casa.

Ella se veía como una pequeña silueta, envuelta en rojo, hombros y cabeza iban envueltos en un gran pañuelo, pero cualquiera que la conociese, al ver su figura, por su manera de caminar, sabía que era ella.

Camino de casa.

The simplicity of the natural.

The fact that the nest was empty froze her heart, it seemed like a curse, as if everything was going against common sense. Getting to touch that warmth of home, that refuge, where life had begun and contemplating it with nothing, altered her thoughts.

The earth was not uncomfortable, nor hard as one could think. Leaves fluffed up, did soft rest. Without much discomfort that she was feeling, it was also true that she couldn't stand holding it like that for a long time. In the end, she would have to drop it to regain her verticality.

That afternoon a storm was threatening, dark clouds were playful. They came over her head fast and just as fast they left. That chiaroscuro in the sky was a faithful reflection of her heart. With the worst feelings of holding onto that abandoned house, the left place... she looked at the sky again and what was her surprise when in that enormous and deep space some winged figures were drawn that came and went defying the wind.

Her mind began to spin faster than until that moment when it had been lethargic, and her heart lighted up.

-Would those be the birds of the nest that she was holding in her hand? .-

If it was true, then... why feel unhappy? They flew high, proud of their art and his plumage, in their natural environment. The simplicity of the natural.

Everything made sense, the passage of time put everything in its place. She had already left the nest in the wood where she found it. Hollow that sheltered lives for a time.

She was already in a vertical position and in her natural way, beginning also to defy the wind. Her hair swirled at her temples and the tips of her hair flew between her lips.

She felt at ease and every moment more and more glad. So much so that she even squeaked at the birds to get her attention. She tried to imitate that language that she intuited, but she didn't know, she couldn't manage it. In that little piece of place, a party dance began, the dance of life.

The woman danced and shouted happily. The birds flew greeting her to the wind, fierce and in their element.

- Don't you realize that we were born to be here, up in the sky? So do not suffer, since we reach our happiness. -

Look for your own happiness and she knew very well where to look, she searched in that natural simplicity that always slept next to her, inside her, in every pore of her skin.

When taking a glance at the cold, smooth surface, toward which she pored over with a kind of curiosity and expectation, the result was always the same: she couldn't find her reflection.

The brilliant ability of that smooth surface was to provide us with truth. Evidence that was in front of it, too simple: one could ask about a doubt, a yearning and it answered with the certainty of what was there.

Those days were long and a somehow tedious in the near summer. Temperatures became inflamed and everything languished, entering that circle of slowness... concerning not only actions, but even thoughts. Those sensations where a simple touch could trigger a million vibrations, as those of a friction with a sheet, or a brushing with a shirt when dressing.

Intrigued, from time to time while smoothing her hair or rubbing her head with a strong massage, she would take a sideways glance at that appreciated mirror and see the reflection of the outside, her beloved garden, the branches drying out due to increasing heat, that delicious air, she could even perceive the smell reflected, yes! that aroma has a warm colour that thickened the surrounding air to a very unusual degree of drunkenness. To her astonishment, her reflection was not there, there was no reflection of her body.

This is how days passed one after the other and in the meantime, her mind used to think as fast as fingers move in a tremolo: Why? why can't I see my reflection? She just wanted to recognize what she was like. Each time she found nothing, a fugitive emptiness.

But , in spite of these things, at the end she nearly contracted an intimacy with the surface. One beautiful and sweet morning, that air around her just whispered in the ear… -“you will only glance your reflection if you look at yourself”.-

-“True!, How was it possible?, she asked”- .

The woman that morning combed her hair with more energy, happier than ever, she was ready and willing. There was no need to look at any reflection in a mirror, grasp the hint!.

Keeping now steadily in mind that it was her… her clothes, her arms, her thoughts, those dancing and hard-working fingers, they all were “herself”. Under those agitating circumstances which ensued, she was her illusion of each day, her tasks, and what she truly did.

She felt a creeping of the air, becoming more and more joyful, satisfied to know that she finally understood a part of the meaning that everyone is looking for: “the presence and essence of oneself”.

In feeling her way, she had found many angles, and thus deduced a strange but vital idea: that essence is not offered by anyone's opinion, or image formed by other people. What we are, is not anywhere. Nor is it anyone's formed idea. There is no reflection that shows how we are, by thinking this way, we are giving this issue a fair trial.

Don't believe the reflection you can see, it's fake. People are walking energies filled with incredible power that cannot be locked up anywhere, neither encapsulated or reflected.

Never get the idea or the image of a person, the reflection is worthless, a grotesque one. Give them the benefit of the doubt, get close to them, that is where their spirit truly resides.

We really are hot, walking energy, with a tangle of potentially incredible thoughts in our heads. What is desirable is that this tangle unravels for the good.

For good and love, mixed with forgiveness.

Who wastes time looking for a reflection in a mirror? Or the reflection that society can share with you?.

A doubt gripped her heart, so strong that she did not feel comfortable either on the ground or at the height of the branches, like a frightened or confronted animal. Why is human nature so unfathomable? Human nature does works alone without breath, without rest. An engine that does not stop and is piercing our interior.

That afternoon, the coolness coming from the stream attracted her to that current of fresh water, while she walked along a path almost lost in the vegetation, she was motivated, without realizing that the brambles and other plants scratched the skin of her legs, she did not even feel the pain because she seemed like an animal at the mercy of others, that others might prey on her.

All that consciousness accelerated her heartbeat and upon reaching the long-awaited water, instead of quenching her thirst, she decided to climb the branches, seeking refuge, to remove her fear. There all her pain and anxiety became zero and tranquillity came. Doubt also, at the end of that hidden path, came the uncertainty of not knowing who she was or where she was... at what point of her life she was, even if her place was the ground at the mercy of the voracity of others or her destination was the branches, like an animal that devours.

Those type of thoughts ran through her head one after the other: eat or be eaten.

What was her place? In truth, neither one nor the other... nor would she allow it, nor did she feel the desire to climb the branches above the others on the ground.

What was her place?... The place where water pools when it does not flow, there she achieved the serenity of her ideas and filled her heart with peace.

The Mistral raged and began to move all the branches around her with force, howling through the thicket, in tones almost unknown to her and bending most of the stems, turning her heart upside down, that wind that blew made her finally descend the trunk and look for water to drink, always where it runs... clean running water.

Moisture down her throat, coolness warming her heart and clearing her thoughts. Relaxing the growing anxiety of a nervous system that never lets us rest.

Thus, without a fixed place, she returned to the path, walking a path that she did not really identify as her own. Her eyes were crowded by surprise or open by the alarm of knowing uncertainty exists.

The tree, her refuge, her house... are still there and will continue even longer than her.

The beloved witnesses. Witnesses of her doubt, of the uncertainty of not knowing her place.

Happy Easter!

What transient moments are! only comparable to fragility and short duration of flowers. Beautiful flowers, tight buds that in a very short time trigger their fleeting existence. Each moment and each thing, each place or each animal, each detail reminds us of transience of life. We are everything and suddenly we are nothing. In a very short time, we will only be a memory on paper, a thought that wanders in other minds.

Our words, the clothes that now shelter us will remain for a while after us... but it won't be too long. Everything is too interconnected so they can go unnoticed: the cycles of life. The flower cycle is too short to remind us that we are not eternal. If we don't stop to meditate on them, flowers will show us. Mysteriously, flowers fill the holy fields, they are very close to us by showing our transition to something different indeed.

Strangely, how easily flowers fall from branches! how petals are quickly deposited in hands, teaching us in a veiled way that it should be assumed and normal to follow our course calmly, in an acceptance of one's own life.

How many people do not realize the transience of our days, where the importance lies in a whirlwind of work or self-improvement, personal development as much as possible, lack of remembering the path of existence, a presence so fast and so fragile... circumstances make us live in oblivion of a false perenniality.

While those petals gave her their softness, accelerated her fall for her, embraced her, simply accompanying the course of her existence... she thought what would be next? perhaps a piece of written paper instead of her being? some earrings left in a drawer as being her? a closet full of her new converted old clothes?

An abandoned place of daily cycles, where day and night no longer matter. That would remain hers. She thought if she could communicate with those petals and ask them to tell her how the journey would be like, it was the same passage that she would take, but flowers were even more ephemeral.

At least, at that moment, they didn't feel alone. The inexplicable harmony of life made time run its course, without too much trauma or too much grief.

It was inexplicable so much beauty sprouting from those branches, tight beauty, in clusters worthy of gods. At that moment, in that place... she felt like a traveling companion of the flowers.

The beginning and end of it would be the same. Therefore, for a given moment in life, by a chance of fate, the woman and the flowers could share happiness.

As much as reason tried to erase all that warmth received, felt, caressed and shared... it was impossible. There were floating memories around, those ones of looks, smiles, kisses… all that could imply a certain complicity.

What accomplice had built that beautiful trough, to drink from love? Overflowing with rainwater, clean and fresh water. She wet her arms and legs but that coolness barely managed to quench the intense heat of her life, of her dreams. She felt so alive.

Soon those bare stems would be filled with flowers, mini pink buds, buds about to burst with greenery, the beginnings of leaves. The pink colour of the delicate petals, the white one... she would admire them again, like so many generations before her, a sweet gift, an incredible spectacle. She felt happy because it was her moment: the moment to live the given time. No matter how much she opened her eyes, sharpened her hearing, or expanded her delicate nostrils to intoxicate herself with the perfume, it was still on its way. It would be quite an event and she knew how to wait. The best is made to wait.

The path that led there was known, a friendly path and that arc, walked in the opposite direction, led to distance, to freedom, to the origin of oneself... the fact is that at that moment bodies were crossing the threshold of love and resting in the peace of that lost corner.

There is nothing forgotten in memory and even less in heart.

Reason cannot erase it, nor falsify it. Neither a thousand winters, nor snow or water can extinguish or cool the beautiful and burning memories.

Soon, trees would be filled with leaves, in abundant dreamed springs. She would have liked to stay there for a long time but she wouldn't stay much longer in that hidden garden, oddly enough no bird was singing, there was a silence that was not annoying, however. It was pure peace.

As long as she could think she would crowd those memories into her heart. We can never fight against freedom and the reasoning mind has a very impossible task. There is no reason per se, to erase life. She will always be impregnated with a sentimental touch.

On the edge of the trough, she was all feelings.

Like waves that went up and down, in and out, life got into her heart so burningly, so did the music, the notes... how rabidly, they grinded and came out crazily one after the other with the rubbing of the violin bow. She never imagined herself as being in a competition to the beautiful sparrow, even to all kind of birds, which at that moment listened to her stupefied, barely hidden in his twig, although delighted and with a certain admiration for these unpredictable humans, who have the ability to understand the song of life, the high-pitched and communicative sound of existence. In an enrapture, the bird listened to her and she listened to him... perfect love!.

- “Delicate sparrow, she never pretended to reach your glory! Here she was simply with her allegro, celebrating your company”-.

The earth pampered us, life spoke with a fine rain of sweet and silent petals that fell, giving a majesty to the representation that was offered there. Representation only for a few crazy people, who dared to be left alone in the middle of a wasteland. Just alone.

The ground full of stones seemed like a stimulating carpet underfoot and the coolness that still remained from winter in the nascent spring still reigned. Neither the bird nor the woman paid attention to it, because blood ran through their bodies, sublime music… notes were falling apart one after the other.

In that afternoon, she felt that her melody reached the distant peaks and if it had not been so, her faithful companion, the sparrow, would take her allegro everywhere, to the far mountains, to the slopes, to the peaks, even boulevards and roads. Travelling in his trill.

"I know it won't last forever", "I know it won't last forever", the woman repeated to herself over and over again as she rubbed the bow against the strings, ripping out her thoughts, her music, in perfect tune for her ears and those of her buddy.

And I insist, yes, yes... I want to wake you up, I have put my effort into it. Life falls in petals, in a rebirth, furiously... a life that never stops.

And I know that my happiness and that of the sparrow is not forever.

Beautiful spring. Love you!

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I would like to know your opinion about some aspects of my artistic photography page, such as: presentation, theme, etc. It will only take you a few minutes to fill this form and it helps me a lot... click on the link below…  Thank you!

Filling form - Laura Marco Art Photography

Hastily, she was already with tasks, the Sun barely rising over the line of the mountains, that ball of fire that drew rivers of gold in the sky, leaving nothing without any blinding around it. Without rest, at the beginning of the week or at the beginning of the morning, even if it was the beginning of the year, at the beginning of an hour o’clock… she tried to make everything stunning around her.

That eagerness began in the house, the room, where all things could be moved, or simply added with new details. Flowers were her favourites... no matter what kind, when they had grown, she would cut them and put them in the vases mixed with honeysuckle stems or tied with a beautiful bow and although she did everything from her heart, trying to start with the same glow of the astral King, there was something that disturbed her spirit.

Could she really do something enchanting, bring about some lasting change? Could she be as certain and sure as the sunrise so dazzling each morning? Could she create something so necessary and vital?

No, definitely not. That worried her greatly. Many mornings in her homework, she would stop for a moment to watch the huge ball of fire rise. So astounding and so accurate, she made everything around us come to life, possible. He gave us the possibility to grow, to exist, he gave us life and warmth, warmth to the bird's nest and light to the stem that grew in the field.

In the middle of her chores, she would stop to contemplate the sunrise, actually in no more than five minutes the sphere had already risen over the horizon, showing its perfect curve and remaining suspended with the best magic in front of our eyes. She was contemplating it, amused at the thought of finding the threads that secretly held that big sphere in the sky. Surely if people looked closely every day, they would discover the secret of this kind of magic. However, as people, we just dedicate ourselves to decorating our surroundings, we embellish things and temporary places that, compared to the king star, appear to us in a shameful ridiculousness or at least as an uncomfortable restlessness.

The light began to flood the room, the fireplace was golden, orange colours wanted to reign in her little room... she got up early and put her heart into every little thing she did. The red rose touched her heart, it was her heart indeed. The flower was filled with the warmth and the colour of her blood, of the life that ran through her veins. There was dedication and beauty and kindness in her work, but she was uneasy at how little value she could bring to all that effort.

She closed her eyes and she forsaw the same room several decades later, radically transformed or sadly demolished and being empty with time, without things. Fallen walls. She saw that, through those broken walls. Nevertheless, there was something that remained the same, unalterable: it was that orange light from the beloved predictable large sphere, which filtered through the fragmented glasses and now bathed the cracked walls, the empty chimney, the collapsed roof. In that vision she understood how ephemeral her arrangements were, how fragile the changes she made around her were!

Superfluous decorations are of no use because they are not durable over time.

The King Star taught her the value of certainty, stability and the true love towards things. In his right measure, he bathed them with his goodness and let them be, let them flow.

On that morning, at moments like that... she began to walk the valuable path, an interior one, perhaps not very visible to human eyes, but perceived by others through true feelings.

That morning, the idea of changing paintings, of arranging the flowers in the vase, did not make sense to her, that morning she was going to look at the orange light bathing the fields, the hills and there she stayed listening to the thanks giving in the songs of the birds. Thank you for the new day that life was giving away.

Through the window, she kept thinking about how to work those rivers of inner peace, how to see and feel that light inside her. She felt grateful to life.

The beauty began to walk from the outside to the inside.