Is midnight already, I’m able to see how my breathe turns into vapor. I can invent thousands of words for what I’m seeing right now, I can invent thousands of actions for what I’m doing right now. Here I am, laying in these ochers and orange waves in which each movement I do, it thunders similar and loud noises that slowly goes into this submissive white foam that freezes my entire back.
“I can’t believe is midnight already” I repeated several times to myself, “I can’t believe is midnight already”. I’ve never been this cold before, I’ve never been this lost before, and I guess is not about what I’m looking, because my crystalized marbles are closed.
It’s dark right now, but still I get to not lose what my pair of tact sensors are feeling in this moment; each time I expand them I can’t stop hearing the crunch between the foam, the crunch between the brownish waves. Each time I stand up, I can’t stop feeling free, falling in infinity. Here I am, standing, screaming, touching, “observing”. Here I am, “looking up”, “looking down”. While what is supposed to be my greenish and big protection of the huge orange star, it turns to be my navy blue panorama, being lighted by that far round light that it looks like if it was creating some rabbit shadow inside; being also guided by those small creatures that the more darker it gets, the more music they create. “Just follow the sound” I figured. “Just follow your thoughts” I tried. Pause.
Right now, I don’t know anything anymore. Pause. Right now, my navy blue panorama is going everywhere, turning each movement into paranoia, into a chaotic stress, because everything is looking the same. Am I going forward? I don’t know. Am I going backward? I don’t know. Pause.
I don’t know what is worse, if knowing that you don’t know, or if knowing that it won’t take that much period to get burned by God’s grandfather that each day gives birth to the same deer.
I don’t want to this madness to be over; I don’t want to find a path that gives my old fingerprints an answer. I’m hoping not to get back; I’m hoping not to get found. Because when this foam starts getting back to create a river, the ocher waves are going to bloom into infinity of colors of life that will bring the joy of thousands and thousands of living objects.
I guess is time to open that pair of crystalized marbles that with the birth of the deer hitting right in, turns them into a light honey maroon color. Is something out there? Is something in there?
I’ll never know what the purpose of changing my softest organ into the roughest rock will ever have to relate to the brightest round light of the dark; I’ll never know any reason why I did loved walking through all this huge grey jungle thinking as if could be my greenish, huge and colorful protection from the birth of the deer; I’ll never know why the new sense of “change” had to put me laying in those ocher waves feeling how the foam was freezing my sense of sense. But yet, I get to understand that some moments are better than others; that some senses are lighter than darker; that some sizes are bigger than smaller; and that some places are similar than differential.
I will just keep falling wherever the dark blue navy appears, because I know I have my big guide friend: the round light with the rabbit shadow inside. I will just keep following the different forms of those old, wise and protecting shadows that for years they had been there, but they haven’t been discovered by this distracted crystalized pair of brownish marbles before.
Getting lost, is the idea; concluding that even the absence of a color in that big, tall, unreachable protection shadow, will give any breathe a piece of vapor, a piece of midnight, a piece of rich experience of brown combinations while any step is given; getting to hear the crunch of the white foam that lays next to each ocher wave. Getting to see the change from white to green, from green to ocher, from ocher to white, and again from white to green, constantly accompanied by the sound of a waving scream that blinks sometimes in a sea tone, sometimes in a blood tone.
Constantly, being darkened by this thick deep sound of that heavy and chatty snake that runs the three hundred sixty-five (in this case three hundred sixty-six) days of the year, up where no mouse can’t touch it, but they can be eaten (if it’s not full) every five minutes, every ten, every fifteen.
Here I am I’m guessing I’m breathing because the vapor is talking for me. I used to hear loud noises all the time, but this space is different, is still pretty loud; but like no other space (or at least not as the space I came from), will be still forming white foam into a small river, like this one. The deer has been born again, figuring that the time is changing. Is brighter, softer, and warmer. I’m not able to see vapor anymore.
Will I ever get to be indifferent to what being laid in this noisy space is? Will I ever get to communicate as everybody else does? Right here, without any fear?
There’s no more round light given from the navy blue friend, the deer has decided to stay. Everything that looked different from the eyes of the round light with a rabbit shadow has proved that a period will always lie. The ocher waves are not ocher waves, the white foam is not white foam, and my navy blue panorama has turned to be all those unreachable, tall, huge protection. Presenting each one of those, their long protective shadow to get unburned.
You get answers if you wait, but you don’t get explanations if you leave. I’m feeling cold again.
