Amber waves of grain, flogged and warped and stretched by a spring wind in a solitary Umbrian landscape.
Human noise is just beyond the hill as a sweet lullaby to be sang for your loved baby.
Walking silently along the path, the sound of your shoes on the debris makes its own contribute to the ancient melody around.
It’s a small one, a delicate one, a tender one.
It’s a whisper, a prayer, a touch of colors in the monochrome day.
The rhythm pulses everywhere.
In the wind that makes the grain dancing, in your steps so relaxed and confident now, in the smooth shape of clouds just above you.
The breeze caressing your face
In the air, now.
The smell of spring.
Its strength, its sound, its grace, its promises
Nothing to do but surrender
Nothing to do but live the life
Nothing to do but breathe the energy in the air
In this very moment the rhythm is inside you, too.
Actor and spectator as well, human and not human, your brain and your body.
You still different but almost a part as well.
What’s your language now?
Can you speak having no words to be said?
Your eyes, only your eyes can talk and tell and discover, no matter if nobody is listening, no matter if all dancers flew away long ago with all their sparkling dresses.
Did you already get that sensation?
Did you already experience the silence in the last room of the empty building, just below the highest flat?
Where someone was living, where someone has lived, where someone spent days and weeks and blocks of existence,
where someone somewhere has memory of as a beautiful spot in a long sequence of hours organized as days,
organized as weeks, collected together to have months in the year.
Is the time only a sequence?
Is the time only an organization? Is there any parallelism or jump or shortcut to be searched for?
Can we cut away a part of it and loose nothing but the unwanted?
Can we rebuild the past, rearranging small pieces of joy into a different puzzle simply stretching and squeezing and zipping each single chunk?
Stories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths.