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Imagem de on@DeviantArt

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Teddy bears. Music box. Storybooks. She grows to become flesh and bone until she gains height, until she shed tears for the first time. It’s a cry of life, a countdown: beginning, middle, and end. No one escapes from it, nor pretend to be anywhere else, despite wanting to. This is how it is, and so it always will be.

Rubber gloves. Colorful lollipops. Sugared aniseed biscuits. In the LiveJournal, babbling loose things until the verbal takes shape. She gains body,  soul, essence. Something that human has, but forgets to see the rest of everything. Poems wrote in prose. Poems wrote in verse. Laughter to happen, children to run, balloons to reach the sky.

Fine fingers, agile movements, she enchants and marvels at the sound of the sea and the mountains. Bare feet on sidewalks, decorated houses, open flowered windows and closed doors. Love takes her in its arms and takes her away. Because far away is a place that doesn’t exist.

Promises fulfilled, promises broken. As it was on Earth, it is in the sky with diamonds of a Lucy that only existed in the song. She dances the melody and the youth in the street seems crazy. Bell-studded trousers, colored scarves on the head, curly bangs, and cries of peace and love. There is nothing more rebellious than the colors flooding the asphalt.

Books and more books to assimilate everything she can. Because the pages are made of many lives, and page by page she understands that the mechanisms are different. The world is big, there are many languages, lots of people. There are no gears or buttons to turn it off. Mathematics, History, Geography. Economics, Politics, Philosophy. There is no way to disconnect the madness of passion.

Ah… the passion. Between the vows of summer love and travels around the world, because from the ‘village I see how much of the earth you can see the Universe‘, she understands why ‘heart is a land that no one sees‘. Neither Poetry, nor Art, nor Van Gogh, or Kahlo, or Monet can explain or save someone. Passion is foolishness.

Life inside another life generates confused feelings, unfounded pain, inexplicable happiness, and longing for distant things, permeating the interweaving of days. Nights in light, smiles, tears, and the scales to mark a weight that the soul doesn’t have. Inaccuracy is the measure of men. They do not see the lightness of the universe. A sea of stars dotting the night sky, showing auspicious paths to the entrepreneurs of the journey.

To her, the flowers of a cultivated garden are joined. Amaryllis, daisies, forget-me-nots draw color to be fixed on the retina, enchantments of a full and determined life. They flood the skin with perfume, and they sing a lullaby in a circle with songs into two bright little eyes to smile at the mischief.

A fall, a goodbye, a loss. So fast. So fleeting. These are things of life, my condolences. The days go by, the nights go by, months and years. The hair is whitening, the city is changing, people are leaving, people are coming and leaving again, and they do not come back. Beds of silence and absence and memories in photographs. Technology keeps the moments of those who do not live them properly.

There are no farewells, no measures to love again. Words are empty, and love is just one of them. Farewells and love are torments of time that doom the soul, but the mission is fulfilled. Completed goals.

She dances around the trees, on the grass of the park, near the toys. There are no children, no child of hers, no children at all. There are no joys, no jokes. They are gone. The empty swings move slowly as if the sadness of not having one’s childhood breaks the joy of a time from which one should not leave.

Wheel and wheel and wheel, as well as golden leaves in the wind, this element begins to sweep the ground. It raises a thin layer of dust, swirling, lifting, dragging, in a furor of tame, contained. Then it’s a delusion. The world spins in a ghastly breath. Swirl! Clouds passing, people running. Hats, umbrellas, papers, dreams.

The sky is gray, the clouds fade. Drop after drop, the rain, in curtains of thin and cold spears, plunges in a vertiginous race towards the mother’s womb. It brings forth the seed, emphasizing existence in desperate flight from the dryness of the earth. The dust of days is rebuffed and subdued. It must continue! It must continue…

The wind carrying the clouds is the same wind taking the rain away, in whitish lines curling the sky to the horizon. No more splashes. Only the scent of earth rising and invading the air.

It is the beginning of autumn, and the last swallows still flutter. Light, smart, auspicious, in the battle against the gale. Soon, they will go north, where the heat resuscitates souls and unleashes and shakes hearts for love. This is the way it is all year round, forever and ever. Swallows, swifts, of a gleaming bluish black, contrasting with the white of the chest.

All clocks stop. Will there be another tomorrow? Where are the clock’s hands? Where are the hours? Who stole time in the schoolyard? Who stole the stories? There are no letters, no words. Everything is lost until the yearning comes. The longing makes the house, the table, the bed; it is who closes the windows, turns off the lights, plunges into solitude.

She empties herself of everything she has. Shoes go away. Wings are created on her feet. She barely feels them on the green, and she spreads with the shiver of caress. She remembers little baby feet touching the ground, taking the first steps. She runs away wanting to swallow the image, drown the memory.

The ground unravels the paths and weaves narrow tracks, winding among creepers plummeting from the lower branches of the trees. Like weeping willows, reaching out for hugs that will not happen.

The sky above opens into a transparent passageway. The clouds dissipate, and a wind tunnel descends smoothly. One last look at the earthly abode and she is rising. The universe flickers. A calm and quiet immensity. “Powder of stars, petals of the Sun, clouds of the Cosmos. Look, Oh, heavenly butterflies! Look! I’m going home! Finally going home.”

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