I was there, just on the border
Standing still, facing those blades of lights that someone calls intuitions or maybe illusions.
Mistakes mistaken for reality or even perspectives.
Rearranging the rules of the game, whatever it were,
They wisphered ancient stories of human beings.
They envisaged peculiar new paths
Brand new patterns of possibilities, still uncovered and unnamed
Melting pot of gifts for a new creation
Still swirling and moving
In the silence of that timeless space
They create those minimal connections and relations
Those semantic new patterns
That at last will get a single shape
A new gem
Brought to life
Perfect bodies to tell the story of the humans. To remember the beauty and the struggle, the passions and the fears.
Almost human themselves. Prisoner of their own never ending story. Tribute to the great artists that have given them a sort of immortality.
Timeless presences spotting our cities. Time and ages sometimes meet just beyond the corner.
Here, at the glass
Standing on the border of this lifeless time
Memories flush out as cold water in a mountain spring
Wreked in this unnamed land, I simply stand.
Still, I can hear those voices wisphering false promises
Still I can sense those dimensions once I was in
Where the time was the ruler,
And both the beginning and the end were the gift.
For they were the brackets enclosing the possibilities of my time.
Questions as usual.
To be forgotten
Now, always, forever and ever
Nothing else, nothing more
The days still move on and on, the same way they always did
The world still spins around with apparently no drama, or sense of sin
Same human made disasters
Same emptiness filled up by ideologies and ghosts of nothing
So fragile the mind, so unstable
In small things busy and concentrated
Or simply relaxing after a night with friends, to breathe the sense of life and the joy of living
Sipping a coffee while watching outside the window
The world slowly waking up and entering the new day
A new day
Fog, a little bit
The precious gift of a new season
Your coffee still hot, the steam rising up in the air
Circles and swirls encountering your eyes and your thoughts
Your lips on the cup
Your eyes staring at this painting of winter and life
Your mind somewhere
Far from here
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.