«Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso y despierte
contemplando
cómo se pasa la vida,
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callando,
cuán presto se va el placer,
cómo, después de acordado,
da dolor;
cómo, a nuestro parecer,
cualquier tiempo pasado
fue mejor»
(Jorge Manrique)

The woman took the pick between her fingers, brought it closer to the strings ... and the soft melody began to fill that environment that absorbed the notes and embellished it to infinity.

Sagged in nature, in earth, in greeneries ... the woman sheltered the nest, offering it a kind of protection, bounded by soft leaves. Thus, Mother Earth supported and helped to follow the course of lifetime and to be able to see newness hatch from those little eggs, from that nest of illusion, of expectation. In short, to see how the lifecycle is being fulfilled.

Will it be long before the little birds were born? Admiring the outbreak of life, will birds hatch from eggs? And it is certainly not ... they will not be born.

The woman spent time next to the eggs giving love, searching for a meaning, next to the synonym of creation. Without wanting to admit that her macabre discovery no longer belonged to the cycle of life, without resigning herself to knowing and admitting that new lives will not emerge.

She had found the nest on the ground, fallen, cold, several days abandoned in the remains of a pruning. Branches looked like fallen and bleeding arms and limbs on a battlefield, writhing in a thousand mysterious ways that spoke of the pains of the fighters' bodies.

And she could not continue on her way, without stopping to feel sorry for the gap of love and care, a little nest which was already abandoned and cold, very cold.

Our present does not want us to remember our past. No value is found in the past and we cannot stop to enjoy and marvel at what everyone is now involved in forgetting. Sadly, inevitable to drop, to abandon things, situations and moments.

What do we do, giving love to “the inevitably expired”? Why can't our heart leave it in the forgotten? Why does the world in general get on the train of the wagons of oblivion, of the irremediably expired?

Could be a problem of sensitivity, maybe of personality and values. Why do we go through the moments so quickly? Perhaps the answer cannot be articulated in words, perhaps ...

The stone of the pendant is called "Ojo de Tigre".

The tiger's eye is said to help overcome difficult stages of our life, it helps us keep perspective in complex situations, the tiger's eye is a protective stone, it shows the correct use of power and makes us draw our integrity, it helps to achieve our goals etc.

Could it be true? I like it because it is very pretty.

At that moment, she felt lonely and strange, like the place. Detained in time, separated from the flow of life, embalmed in the strangeness of that dwelling. The aura of the place was different and also was the light that caressed her eyes. Maybe the absence of people disarmed her, surely the emptiness around remained at variance, as a huge warning of our fragility. There and then, it seemed that animals were the owners, that they suffered equally but at the same time were unaware of the force of nature, weren’t they?

On the floor, the pitcher full of water stayed, synonymous with life, the life that hid in corners, that escaped through open windows. Easily, the woman would take comfort in once again surrounding the pitcher in her arms, feeling its weight and freshness, even humidity as it was filled with water, that precious asset for life.

In moments, she’d be walking out that old abode, leaving it more alone than ever, no matter how much she looked at it, she couldn’t take the cherished ambiance with her, but It’d remain engraved in her thoughts, eyes and heart.

Does it matter not being able to step softly on that ground again? nor breathing fresh air, nor swallowing silence and filling the ears with many sensations? Not really, everything was kept in her heart.

The Path of One
(By Robert Waldhour)

Stepping away in the crimson tunnel
Trapped in a moment of time
Must find my idyllic self
Before the final bell chimes
Straining to see my way forward
As I traverse this narrow ridge
Caution must be utmost in my dance
For such a lonely journey as this
Will I earn a golden heiligenschein?
Or stand alone in a darkened sky?
No time now for myopic moves
I must bravely stem the rushing tide
My steps must be determined and sure
Can't let my soul fall away
As I make one final climb
And reach to embrace the day.

Almond trees in bloom...

I'm floating away
I'm floating away from me

Sometimes it happens that life changes and we are not so in line with what surrounds us, landscape is the same, but there is no union, affinity, even mimicry ... there is no mood union with the environment. So, we look for assuredness in all what is known around. Could only be certainty in landscape, in colors, in drawings of clouds?.
My notion is different from what I find around which often does not belong to me and with which I do not identify.
When the woman takes a bucket of water from the well, she does it knowing that she plunges it in the known, in the backwater of purity well hidden in the bowels of the earth.

The guardian land of its purity, guardian of a certain security of mind. With some effort the bucket is taken from that pure, pristine mirror, broken at times in waves. What she does deform the surface, a false copy of reality. Who can I see, what can I see? I look at myself in a world I don't recognize, full of banality ... so false that it crumbles when she sank her bucket, in that cold and humid silence, in that alluring darkness.

It's known that surroundings offers water to fill the well, a part of rain will enter but fortunately sand or a grap of sticks will filter all impurities, finally water remaining just still. It's tiring although pleasant to look at truth at the bottom, from a world so little compromised and spurious.
In the well we'll gather certainty for a present of unsteady needs.

"I can't do the talk like they talk on the TV
And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be
I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you
I can't do anything except be in love with you
And all I do is miss you, and the way we used to be
All I do is keep the beat in a rock 'n' roll company
And all I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme
Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time"
[...]  Says something like, "You and me babe, how about it?"
"You and me babe, how about it?" (Dire Straits, Romeo and Juliet)

This year I would like to pay special attention to composition, in my opinion artistic composition is one of the most difficult aspects.
I'm convinced that light and colors are based on personal perception of each artist, nevertheless order or distribution of elements, is something that "must be learned". It's not sufficient with a personal touch or a particular way of perceiving.
If we want to succeed and work in a way that guarantees a harmonious beauty and perception ... we must study, practice, improve and learn how to achieve it.