The Eyes Behind Sunrise

I was waiting for the sun to light the road in the middle of a bridge, hearing the song of excited birds, I can feel they belong to this world, I'm trying to grasp the stains that follow the tempo to the waterwaves which follow the rhythm of colors. In their head flows the sound of the sweet flute, the flute with the name of the goddess, the flute my companion the flute my shelter.
My feet howl me to keep walking, the lake and the fish chant me to stay. Beyond the clouds the light starts to odd. The festival of colors is about to start and nobody else is watching. The flute provides the choir and the air is as cold as the breath of indiference.
The birds squawk extending their wings, the dogs bark showing their teeth, the cars make the sound of progress and the moon still squire me between the daring purples, the untold greens and at the end white. Your face make no noise, no color. But I feel you inside the skin, blowing thoughts, remembering of yesterdays, flavors, smiles, movies and your open small eyes staring as ever, staring behind the sunrise, the hugs and the heat i do not feel. Do you exist? Why are you not here?
I touch my own skin, helps me forget the loneliness. The water would not let me alone and start reflecting the first shy yellows, the promise of the trail brings back the strength. It was just passenger.
Nothing absconds on this side of the highway, with my static feet, the air roam my body, the steam arising from my throat condenses in the air leaving a blurred vision. And those wings are loosen from some meters above, falling into the water, sometimes they catch a fish, sometimes the cold water catches them.

Photo by Daniel Diner ©

I wonder if there is already enough light and I concede to this legs the hard work of carrying this head, which for some reason it will not stop thinking of you. Even if you are not here, even if you have never been. My real company is this sun and this moon that shine and illuminate mi world day a day.
Step by step I throw the left thumb. Where is it going to take me this path?

A New Start

RECOMMENDED TO EAT WITH SPECIAL SPOON (Creep-Radiohead)

This had started a long time ago, before I can remember. I don't know how did it started or where, what I do know is it found me. It found me and got into the air I breathe, into the sounds I hear, into my veins and pull me to the place it wants. It controls my voice, my moves, and all I can do about it is to write. Mainly that is what this is about.
I know you have it, somewhere deep behind those fears (I feel the fear), somewhere behind that everyday smile, I know sometimes it shows up, when you are more tired and look at the mirror wishing something has changed, but it hasn't.
It hides on the corner of one eye with the hope that you will look at it one day. Be afraid, be really afraid because it knows everything about you, your passions, your dreams, the unfinished business with your own, your failures. It knows your deepest wishes. It is the only thing that can bring you real happiness. Look at it. Ask its name, never forget its name.
Let it grab you, it will destroy you, from the lies you tell to others to the ones you tell yourself. It will burn you to ashes and if you are strong enough it will give you a new body, new wings, new eyes, and you will take the shape you have always had inside.
Be afraid, but never run. Let it live. Drown it with the darkest wine or with the purest water, feed it with the bitter tears and the sweetest smiles.
Look again in the mirror, you are right there. We are right there. And now we are ready for a new start.
At this point you absolutely know what I am talking about. Be afraid, but do not escape.
Swim in the sheets and scratch the blankets, inhale and exhale 3 times, 7 times, sleep tight.
This is not over.
This is not even started. It will be when you want. But hurry, that won't wait forever. Mine was really harmed when I found it. What harms them the most is the unhappiness of a potential smiler. Be one, smile. Mine is waiting for another burning eyes, mine is making me go crazy with the sound of the guitar imperceptible, and I don't seem to recognize the fingers, neither the tones.

And so, here I am. In front of the tiny line winking and waiting for someone to show it the way. Why? How? I do not know the way. I have to find it. I will try really hard behind this lines and many others, if you ever get a string of something that looks like it, please, please let me know.
Welcome to this absurd lines. I hope they make some sense.






Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889
Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853–1890)
Oil on canvas