Time, The Role of Light and Flowers
The feeling of being transported to the East. Toe walking in a flower garden where the scents will intoxicate you with the colors of green, pink, blue meet and the sun, ready to illuminate every detail, even your soul. A top light as the folly of a desire and a skirt that is broken up by the wind and by strange games of light between the foliage of the trees. The warmth of an embrace, to feel women with the simplicity of one who has nothing to flaunt. The ability to persuade, to charm, to relax. As if it were a perfume. And come to think of it maybe it is.
The scent of time passing by, silent, almost pushed into the air. The weather is strange. Affected portions of the infinite as the water that flows. Then take a tour of the as a hand, and you find yourself far from where you had left. The time of crumpling flowers, and the thoughts, curling like you in your skin that is the same as the night before, yet so different. Time to tune up the watch on the hands of the heart here who seem to follow its own rules, which have nothing to do with the passage of time. Time to slow down and then accelerate again, only to hear the silence that blends in with the noise, to capture a moment that smacks of poetry, to breathe this air. Free, hectic, magical. The time to think that I do not know why but you here, in these shoes, you feel good. The time of meetings. Deficiencies. Kisses. Coffee. Trains, ships, aircraft, and expectations, and long walks. Glances and smiles. Intersections. Hours empty, and the days too full. Reverse, reverse course and program changes. Time for questions to which you do not seek obstinately for a response. Are you really where you want to be? Hugs, sing until you lose the item and be a part of that moment, and all of those that will be. I want to make a photo. Taken of conscience. Uncertainties, points, and a timid sun through the leaves to warm everything up. Hand-written letters on ancient scrolls, the words, and sometimes even the silences. Surprises. Some kind of error that without we would not be the same. A stroke of luck. Leaves scroll all the time, in the end it is you that he called the rhythm.