One more time, crimson carnation petals fall to the ground, adorning the way to vengefulness and hatred.
Here comes the maroon thundercloud: the turmoil revives, the explosions resurrect.
It resurrects, it revives, that waxen face which stole my breath away.
It revives, it comes back, that glacial, remorseless stare that chilled me to the marrow.
That paralysing dread, that perturbing stench.
Why is there so much morbid fascination and repulsion with death?
They are not bleeding, they are not dying just for your attention. But we keep on looking, with that morbid, repulsive expression drawn on our faces.
And what will my death be like? Will those shameless eyes stare avidly at my decomposed body once they took me out of the river? Will they dare to keep their eyes on my crushed head on the road?
How much violence do we have to confront?
Why can't I prevent myself from looking at these dead bodies?
How long will this grief last vivid on my memory?
How many distressing nights will those wraiths visit me?
How can I get rid of these corrosive acids so they don't make me feel sick anymore, this metallic taste so it ceases to choke me, these desolated tears, these faithless prayers, this anguish meant to be my uncertain life?
Ilargia was innocent. Wounded by the whip of reality, she used to spread white lead on her skin every early morning. Thereby her visage would preserve its moonbeam in the dead of night.
She illuminated the whole world, although she was all alone. She would dedicate long hours to each and every one, surrounded by music that would disguise the void in which she was floating.
One day, Ilargia realised that time had not passed at all: time had been paused throughout her whole brief life, and had just commenced that very day when she met Eguzkia. He came as a dulset, mellifluous voice, an inescapably captivating melody, in harmony with her tiny being.
The feeling was reciprocal. They ascertained how similar they were, how immaculately they fit. Eguzkia shone on Ilargia for the first time, and his sunbeams turned her paleness into inexperienced, gilded blush.
Such was the magnetism between them that their spins changed.
Such was the immediate feeling that struck them both, they forgot the rest of the universe around them.
Such was the chimera of meeting each other that they didn't perceive how they overcame the insurmountable distance that stood between them, within a time interval that did not take up any space in their memory from the moment they found themselves face to face.
Ilargia prayed for forgiveness, pleading for God's blessings on this love.
Once upon a turbid heart, throbbing beneath the morning dew, a seed of hope metamorphosed into an azure goddess. Her gaze sparkled with deep-rooted faith. Her raven tresses worn in an endless plait. Her spine, an apricot blossom garland.
And there she slumbered.
The heart was surrounded by a flowing substance, the soul.
The goddess pierced the heart's lining with her hands; she sank her nails into the soul, her fingers clung to it and put down roots.
The soul diminished: it lost its spark, its valour, its will to fly.
The apricot blossom withered when the soul faded away. And it started to soak up the goddess's pernicious dreams.
The heart remained mute, paralysed.
The goddess was a dormant volcano, writhing in her dreams, awaiting the awakening.
So many times I hush when wishing to tell how good you are...
Just because I think it's the best for us if I don't tell.
None of us is naive. You want to go on, and I want to slow down.
In the end, we both will crash and get hurt.
And one more time, I will blame myself.
There is an awkward image in front of me. I can't recognise such thin silhouette as mine.
Through the fog, I stare at a stranger. I am covered, she is covered. We look at each other with the same distrustful expression on the face. Quiet, still, silent. The fog does not move; everything is frozen.
I approach her. She is serious, and looks much older than me. Thin face and arms, naked shoulders. Our eyes wide open. She has something that belongs to me.
I feel repulsed by her appearance and I move back, slowly. She stares at me, quietly. It seems like her expression has not changed one bit. Suddenly, she starts taking off her cover, as mine begins to slide.
It finally falls, and the scene shows a naked woman. Her mature body shows no infant roundness. The history of human race seems to be written in her skin. And her fertile belly shows the readiness to give life.
She stares at me, silently. Her breast reminds me of the sex and the children I never had and never wanted. I approach her again, I try to touch her...
And for a moment I almost give myself over a love with deadline. A steady tree with ancient roots and long branches that tower over me and protect me from wind and rain. Whose leaves create a cover that keeps me away from my deepest fears...
A life of mediocrity, with an expiry date that they want to make up, insured with a spirituality that asphyxiates my own interests and preoccupations.
But I preferred to sit in the shade of a green and flexible trunk, where I can be myself.
With light branches that surround you only with caresses when the wind blows (and sometimes when you least expect it). With leaves that hold it back when it is too strong but let the rain pass through and refresh you, hit you, calm you and hurt you, making us grow taller, stronger and wiser.
That helps me face the fears of the future, and teaches me how to be happy with them, almost by chance...
I already thought about it, and there's nothing that I would like to do most than rolling over your bed while taking photos of you with my fingers. Enjoying naturally a love that's evergreen and free in its deepest meaning.
