I would like to take advantage of spring to be reborn too, imitate the flowers that patiently leave frost, cold, short days and persistent rains behind and forget how far away the time when they could have shown themselves seemed.
I would like to dress myself in color and beauty, to be like a sunny day that everyone greets with a smile, sinking my eyes into an intense blue sky, without borders.
I would like to strip myself of the gray afternoons, of the dark thoughts, of the shortcomings that have clouded my heart and take back the life I deserve, to sprout like an insignificant blade of grass, to break the monotony like a poppy in a cornfield, spontaneous and impertinent, lonely yet so essential.
I would like to be waited for and welcomed, like a sunny spring, like a season that instinctively makes one think of the beauty of simple things, of daisies, of perfume... of life.
The truth is that spring doesn't care. He doesn't care if you're sad.
It flaunts all its colors in front of you, its perfumes, and the first warm rays of the sun catapult upon you... whether you're ready or not.
Spring can be very indelicate with those who are sad. It flaunts its laughing beauty, as if to make fun of those who still have snow on their hearts. Indeed, to those people who linger in the winters of the soul, he seems to say: "I made it and you didn't.", "The whole world goes on. While you stay behind".
Whoever is sad is sadder in spring.
Because spring is like this, intrusive and pretentious. He knows how to give you everything he has, but in return he wants absolute devotion.
She is an aware woman, a refined lover, who however demands attention and admiration.
It is an opportunity to choose. An opportunity to be seized.
Spring is not waiting for you. She passes you suddenly, and wants to be chased.
It looks like happiness. It looks like love.
The truth is, spring doesn't care if you're sad. She arrives. It comes anyway.
And you just have to choose it.
Because it's not a right moment, but the right decision to make at all times.
There was a season
Of ordinary amazement
Innocent fingers brushed
The sky to count the stars
Dreams blossomed lightly
With golden firefly wings
The world was everything
In a moment
In the protected circle
Of hugs
Life seemed beyond
Beyond doors forbidden to childhood.
Is it the shadow that exists by virtue of the light, or is it the light that exists by virtue of the shadow?
We are made up of chiaroscuro, secret areas, bright accents and dark hiding places.
Nuances.
Cries of children.
Far horizons.
We are a contradiction in terms, of spirit and flesh.
The ethereal evanescence of the soul and the concrete physicality of the body.
We are perfect in our imperfection.
Outstanding bills have to be paid right?
After all, life is like this, it takes everything away from you without warning,
it's better to face everything like when you have to tear off a plaster on the wound, you count to three.
And you tear, you know?
In this case you raise your head and let your silences make them feel, there you understand that you are ready to strike.
Do it but make everything tremble.
If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days
with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key
of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face
guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 