One British Autumn – epistle for the swans

The sunset came red and purple. The clouds covering the smooth skin of the sky played with your imagination showing you what you had envisioned in your nocturne revelation. You could not help licking your lips as if crumbles of pleasure tainted their fullness. You could almost feel the taste of love, the love you never thought you’d fell for.

Just hours before, in the solitary tower next to that impudent, young forest, the wind brought you the news; you didn’t move one muscle as the skies poured on top of you their every drop of desire, your desire. The sky always knows, the sky knows you. And her.

That night was flooded by our friends’ laughter. Remember? In all that beautiful chaos, we still found time to touch hands, cheeks, lips… And when your lips kissed my collarbone I lost balance and regained it as your arms stopped my fall. That’s all I remember vividly from that night.

The next thing that comes to mind is the simplicity of a dusty road, cutting through green pastures that slowly changed color from hyper green to earthy browns. I can still feel the concaveness of the clouds on top of us, pressing on my eyes, making me want to close them, let myself guided by your voice. You used to sing.

The ruins of what once used to be a fortress stand proof that no matter how well one would protect oneself, the result is unchanged. We all turn into ruins when the time comes. What are we defending? Who are our conquerors, what do they wish to make theirs?

Let’s close our eyes together. Let’s inhale the humid air the lake cares to share. Let’s feel the beauty of the swans before they spread their wings and fly towards warmer lands. Winter is coming, the wolves will protect us, don’t worry.

We left and let the majestic birds take with them our hope. They needed it more than we did. Don’t you want them back, darling? The birds, our hope… Instead dark clouds maculate the joyfulness of yet another warm sunset. The water looks even more frightening than when it almost took me prisoner. But so alluring, beautiful reflection of my thoughts, sometimes.

I can’t let go of the idea that up on the hill, surrounded by water and by the dance of the new trees we could have lived unknown to generations. Just you and me, is that enough for us?

I will never forget the way the waves slapped and loved the shore. I don’t even have to close my eyes to reminisce the story to which I never wanted to imagine the ending. Your laughter would turn into thunder when my arms tried reaching for the clouds. You were afraid they would transform into some restive horses and make me disappear. Or that Neptune will send the sea to talk me into learning how to swim. That’s when I took your worried face into my little palms and looked you in the eyes smiling. I’m here with you.

Where once were hills dressed in forests, now valetudinarian clusters bring joy into the eyes of the storyteller. Hope didn’t leave us, the big white birds return, their wings carry the materialization of our last year’s ideas. Fantasies and dreams can be reality, otherwise our minds couldn’t see them tattooed on our retina.

Close your eyes and remember the rain, oozing down your face, making you keep your eyes closed. Do you remember its perfume? Remember the sky, barely ever naked of clouds. Remember the castles, for hundreds of years. Remember the passionate sunsets over the cliff licked by the foamy waves, sometimes angry, sometimes playful. Do you?


In the Now



Good evening, Sir. I start my first letter to you with the sweet memory of the serene days when the pen was the extension of my thoughts, guided in the shadows of the night, by the graceful dance of the candle’s flame. And this is how I make my first conscious human error, looking back, disregarding Sufism, ignoring in a masochistic act what Rumi so simple declared: “Past and Future veil God from our sight, burn up both of them with fire.” Fire of the intellect, fire of the Spirit, fire of desiring to embrace Now, as we all know that “the Past is history, the Future is mystery and the Present is a Gift”, thus its name of “present”.

The violin trembles in the hands with long, skinny fingers. The piano is keeping her company, enhancing the musical syllables. I started climbing again and I wonder, am I one of those poor souls who engage in this type of activity because it forces me into the Now? Am I searching for a bridge to this intensely state that’s free of time, free of problems, free of thinking, free of the burden of my, sometimes unbearable, personality? Search, ask, answer, connect. Live. Let die. Enjoy the endless moment of the eternal present. Carpe diem. If not Now, then when?

“Nobody who puts his hands to the plow and looks back is fit for the Kingdom of God.” And yet from the past we take big part of our knowledge. And project our future, our dreams. And yet, any lesson from the past becomes relevant when is applied now. As any planning, as well as working toward achieving a particular goal, has to be done now.

The memories are the misty air that fills the gap between the past and present, between years ago and today, between one hour ago and this exact second when you’re reading my scattered words.

I read with my eyes closed the following lines, it’s like I heard them before, it’s like I know them from the conscience of the first human to have ever stopped his time flow on the idea: “Stop trying to understand everything mentally. The mind cannot understand this, only You can.” – how many times you’ve experienced the knowledge of something without being able to explain why and how? How many times your instincts scream at you to do or don’t do certain things? How many answers you hold in you and have no question to attach them to?

“Nothing ever happened in the past; it happened in the Now. Nothing will ever happen in the future; it will happen in the Now.” It is so logical to think of the past as of a memory trace, stored in the mind of a former Now. The future is an imagined Now, a projection of the mind that bears different names, as given by each and everyone’s personality, call it a plan, a goal, a dream, an yet unconquered land.