I was used to split the hairs, and argue about the world and its inner choices. I was used to stare at the sky, I admit it, but my feet were planted deep in the earth and my arms crossed, as a shield.
Many were the paths, and I swear I knew well the one I had to catch. No doubts at all, although things around spoke different languages, and the horizons changed so fast, under that annoying wind.
Not sure even now of when and why, not sure of a reason, nor if there was one.
Claiming the here and now, claiming the best, I lost my direction.
But the major mistake was to believe there were one.
Same old story, again and again.
"I second that", I say. "You cannot", you replayed. "It's just a game, and we all are pawns, and what we do and how we move is just written by someone else", I said.
You stared at me with anger and emotion, your eyes wet and proud.
"And so? Are you going to leave the game just because you fear not to win? It is unfair, my love. And, all the more, it's useless 'cause there is no winning move, and the game is rigged".
"And those names and faces and voices you care so much, all of them, all of them are just illusions and yet real. As real as you are. Because they are you".
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.