Niño perdida

De joven le gustaba pasear, perderse
Desaparecía entre los adultos y se iba a explorar


Sus padres la llevaban al bosque
Y él se perdía entre los árboles
 Se sentía libre, perdida, desaparecido


Buscaba portales para perderse aún más
Si bien nunca los encontraba
Había algo en el bosque que la atraía,
Un sentido de pertenencia quizás,
O un misterio que no podía resolver allí siempre podía encontrarse en cualquier lado


De grande le gustaba pensar, perderse
Desaparecía en su introspección y se iba cada vez más profundo


Sus padres lo llevaron a otra ciudad
Y ella exploraría los callejones y locales
Curioso, perdida, desconocido
Tan perdido estaba en su mente


Que se encontró a si misma como edificios antiguos
Se había olvidado de si mismo
Y se reconocía en la pintura caída
En su abandono humano y el reclamo destructivo de la naturaleza
Insaciable irrumpió y se adentró en el edificio cerrado


Allí encontró millones de objetos tirados en el suelo
Tesoros preciados olvidados por sus dueños y el tiempo


Allí encontró su reflejo en un espejo
Despeinado y ojerosa, desarreglado y descuidada


Allí buscaba un portal y allí se terminó encontrando


Perteneciente a lo perdido, allí se quedó

Reflejo olvidado (anagrama)

Mañanas largas
Intranquilos despertares
¿Bañarme? A veces. Quizás a la noche, quizás a la mañana
El espejo me devuelve la mirada, solo por un segundo
Lo que veo lo veo con lagañas
Lo que veo lo veo con ojos cansados
Arcoiris peinable, lo primero que veo
Como nido de lechuza enredado
A veeeces me lo peino,
Buena parte del tiempo no
Es el descarrilamiento, el descuido
Lo dejo estar, me dejo estar
La rutina de cada día es el no importar
¿Era yo la que me miraba al espejo?
Recuerdo como me veo, pero es efímero
Ahora quiás me haga un rodete sin mirar.

Autobiografía (para producción de textos) 10-02-15

Ushuaia es un lugar gris y frío. A veces, en el otoño, toma colores. La rodea una cadena montañosa que encierra los bosques, ciudad y cuerpos de agua que ésta tiene.
Me llamo Lené. Me pusieron así por una amiga de mamá, pensaban que era un nombre francés pero investigué arduamente y resultó ser escandinavo. Escandinavia es una zona montañosa, con mucho bosque, y fría como casa. Lené significa ilustre. No creo, pero espero, llegar a alguno de los dos lados.
El invierno antes de que naciera fue la nevada más grande de mi ciudad, dos metros de nieve cubrieron las calles, mi papá fue a su casamiento en esquíes. Me hubiera gustado haber estado ahí.
Las montañas me protegieron de afuera toda mi vida y los bosques me llevaron a mundos mágicos en los que crecí desde chica. Mis padres son artistas. Yo soy su única hija. Siempre sola y abrigada busqué un lugar al cual pertenecer dentro de los libros. Viajé a tantos lados sin salir de mi casa. Las veces que si quería salir de mi casa era para saludar a las gaviotas y buscar portales mágicos en el bosque.
Un día leer no fue suficiente para escaparme de afuera y de mi soledad. Un día comencé a escribir yo misma. Me di cuenta que a veces para crear o saber, o escribir o pintar, o hacer lo que es especial para cada uno, no hace falta encerrarte en tu casa y hacerlo.
A veces escribo sin cuaderno, cuando miro el atardecer o cuando hago nuevos amigos. Me di cuenta que mis montañas ya no me protegen, ahora me encierran; sin dejarme ver que hay más allá, y sin dejar que el más allá me vea a mi. Y las gaviotas y mis gatos me dijeron que yo tengo que salir para encontrar las historias que se tienen que contar. Repentinamente solo soy ojos que ven, oídos que escuchan y dedos que escriben.
La familia de papá está compuesta por músicos, y mi mamá es artista visual. A ambos les hubiera gustado que siguiera sus pasos, pero me aman igual. No se dan cuenta que hago ambos, como me siempre me las arreglo para matar dos pájaros de un tiro.
Lo que escribo, se ve y se escucha. Lo que veo y escucho, escribo.
A veces siento que sangro palabras.

The Capulet flower

- 1 -

Balthasar gave his normal slow pace through the corridor of his room, he was looking for something. Something in a dream reminded him of a diary he used to keep, he wanted to find it. It was a small little notebook, such a sneeky thing, where was it? It shouldn't be too far, yet it was, so many years had passed since then. Balthasar went down the stairs to the old basement located below the apartment, right next to the parking, something he had never had the need to use, for he never in his 63 years had learnt to drive. Balthasar searched through the old locker, two meters deep and three meters tall. Tall and deep as it was, it wasn't enough to hold all of his stuff, everywhere, loads of boxes and old junk. Junk everywhere on end, he went back upstairs to look for a chair, this was not good at all for his back. Back to work, he took away the heaviest stuff first, a bycicle, an old telly he had never used, and a couple of boxes, but when he removed the boxes one of them fell to the floor, revealing something unexpected, something long forgotten.
Forgotten letters now lay around on the floor, their unmistakable smell brought back all their words to Balthasar, words of happiness and love. Love from so long ago, that he forgot everything that was happening in that very instant, the men shouting at a football game, the people crossing the street, the nearing clouds of storm, the little bird that flew past by and was now feeding on some crumbs. Balthasar opened one of the letters, and began to read it. Its words made him want to cry, he pressed his lips to the paper and ink to try and kiss the words, try and kiss the person, but of course it was just paper. Paper everywhere on the floor, he put it all back on the white box, where it belonged, saving everything back inside the locker; he would come back at some point.
At some point, he found himself at a park, with the white box of letters. Letters which he opened from first to last. Last was the name of the author of said letters, a certain Katerina Capulet, in beautiful handwriting. Handwriting; such a thing of the old ages now! Now it was all texting and sexting and facebook posts filled with empty words, or words of others. Others would not understand how this 63 year old man felt, as he cried to those letters in a box, remembering times long past. Past long and eternal words he felt like answering to those letters, he felt like writing with all the affection there ever was in this world, the affection of a parent teaching it's child, the affection a bee has towards the flower from which it draws the nectar from, the affection with which the sun each morning rises from the east; but Balthasar had already answered those letters, it would be empty and hollow to do it all over again, wouldn't it? It was unholy to try to remember her, to desire her, to love her, to do anything other than admire her, for she was so human it was unthinkable that you could just take her for yourself without breaking her. Her dark stare, her apparent indifference towards others, but he knew, for the words he read in the letters, she was so much more than the wall she had once proyected.
Balthasar's surroundings began to grey, and as he saw a small drop of rain fall into one of the pages, he quickly put them back inside the box, and went to a bar close-by. By the window he could see the heavy rain in the dark streets as he drank green tea and thought about the letters, it had been so long, and he still loved her, he could never forget her. Her wild, seemingly uncontrollable short hair, the strange turn her lips took when she would smile.
Smile he could not, he tried, but he could not. Not because the memories weren't beautiful, but because he had forgotten so much he could never forgive himself.
Balthasar opened the next envelope, inside there was a photograph, a black and white smile of a young blonde woman standing next to a tree; her body facing the tree but her face turning towards the camera, looking inside the eyes of the beholder with such joy and wonder. Wonder how time goes by, with the photograph there came a flower petal that belonged to the tree surrounding Katerina; such a delicate blossom, Balthasars fingers were shaking as he tried to hold the petal without destroying it, brought it to his nose, as he once used to do so very often, a memory now so faint. Faint was the perfume now, almost completely lost, yet somehow it persevered through time.
Time it was to exit the bar for the rain had ceased and so much was in his mind, there was something clinging to be noticed, yet it was so far away. Away as the memory of how he once felt, the perfume of the petal had brought a tiny little glimpse of how he used to feel, and he tried to catch it in the air but he could not, he was consumed by the need to remember, to feel like that again.
Again Balthasar was out of the bar with his box of letters and slowly walking the two blocks that took him to his appartment, one single thought on his mind, that if he was to find the tree from which the petal belonged, and smell that air that reminded him of his first lover, he could feel as he had felt before.

Words

If you were to cut me open to see what's inside
Words would be all you find.
On the outside the only thing I have
Are eyes to see and ears to hear
Inside I'm bursting with words
But I do not own a mouth
Yet there are so many, so many words in me
They bleed out whenever they can
Whenever there's a pen
Whenever there's a computer
They escape through my fingers
I have so, so many words
They flood away because they don't all fit in me
And people seem to enjoy the taste of my blood
It's alright, I have so much
I don't mind giving you my words
So many words
All for you
It's alright, you can take them
I have many of them
Look; here I bleed again.

The keeper of ashes

I dislike fire
It's blaze and warmth frightens me
But it is an execution dutifully needed
I am the keeper of ashes
Once the bright light of
life, creation, and destruction
incinerates whole, eating it's host
Once the light of the fire fades away
When only blackness lays behind
The leftovers are ashes of what once was
I collect them
And I save them
To remain forevermore 

Genesis of Savein

I


I was the last of my sisters to be born. We were born from a seed of Ulamineska in Anul's hair. We are three, Sonja's the oldest, then Skylar and then me. We are stars. With our birth all the stars in the night sky were born, but I have never met or seen one that is like us, we have two forms. The animals told us that, that's because we have the gift of consciousness that other stars and constellations have not, so we have two bodies, the fiery rock, and our conscious form with which we roam the land we shine upon.
My sisters and I are each making a field book, filling it with everything we know. Sonja says the word is grimoire, and Skylar tells me it's good for remembering things when you need them. But I could never forget about the properties of tulips or how to make essences out of teardrops, or the names of trees and which animals live along them. But they say the more I put in it the better, that it should be filled with everything there is in the world.
Maybe I should start telling the story of how Savein became what it is. I don't think my sisters wrote about the beginning, even though they know it, I think they are just writing everything about the present and what they lived so far, I guess they're right, there barely was anything before we were born.
There was nothing, truly, but water and rock. Rock was the core, and water covered it all, and there was nothing else, there was no sky, no light, only Darkness and Hope. Water and rock.
Until, slowly, very slowly, the rock began to grow, peaks of rock began to rise from the water, until you could call it a land.

From inside the rock something started to grow, a seed that wasn't there before, grew and grew and grew until it became a tree. A tree of white bark and purple leafs; the first to breathe in this land of rock and water. It's spirit awoke something on the rock and the water, the tree could think and feel, but most importantly, the tree could create. It's roots grew inside the rock, that was now partly earth, the roots grew and extended themselves to some place they liked for themselves and from them grew other trees, but not white trees like the first one, from the roots grew normal trees, yew, pine, hazel,nirre, lenga, and many other trees. They, nonetheless, could not create like the first tree. When the land was filled with earth and trees and flowers and grass that were well taken care of by the water that has been there since the beginning, from the first tree was born a Sun.

II

From beneath it's roots a creature crawled and was born, it was fire and it was life. His name was Lëm, and his fire shot to the sky and lighted the land, when he was in the sky the flowers blossomed and the trees gave fruit. The sun was gifted with;consciousness, so he had another body, the first body to crawl, walk and run on the land. After long hours of walking around and shining upon everything that he could lie his eyes on, he came back to the place were he was born, tired of his first day of life. He slept against the first tree and his dreams travelled through the first tree and into it's roots, and from them a Moon was born, crawling from inside the tree. The moon was like the sun, but completely different, it was not fire, it was not life, but she was magic and dreams, she was soul. She wondered at the sleeping man next to the tree, his dark body shining only mildly, but enough to make her skin sparkle. 

Hánuxa walked around the land and got to see it, she saw how her presence changed the ways of the water and the growth of the flora. When she returned to the first tree, which she liked better than most, not for being the womb from which she was born, but because of it's beauty and majesty. As she looked upon the tree, she gave it a name; Ulamineska. Then four seeds fell from it, the first fell on the ground, the other three got entwined in her curly hair, and she looked up to her original form in the sky, and now it wasn't alone. In her hair there were many twinkling sparks, that shone on the sky next to her.

But there were three sparks that shone brighter, creating a small constellation in the night, three great stars that looked like an arrow head together. Hánuxa called it Oliuaia. Watching the Oliuaia constellation with great pride, she felt the Sun waking. And when he woke the fire from his eyes awoke consciousness in us.

III

Like I said, Sonja was born first, she was curious above all, she soon learned the name of the moon and the sun, of the Tree and her own, her hair is a soft brown, and her face and body was covered with freckles. While Lëm and Hánuxa were walking around the land, sleeping or exploring, my eldest sister sat in front of Ulamineska, and saw her younger sister be born. Skylar was born a day later, her hair orange and short, her eyes a deep green, her skin too, was covered in freckles. Sonja was quick to teach her little sister everything, and told her there was still another star to be born from the first tree. They saw my birth, we three shared freckled skin, but I was blonde of hair and of light blue eyes. The three of us wondered around the land for infinite time, there was no counting the days, for the moon and sun were on the sky at the same time most of the time, maybe one left before the other at times, or sometimes they would walk different paths and the sky would have two sides.
The fourth seed then grew. It was clouds. The sky filled with clouds, now it rained, or snowed, or there was rainbows. Now the sky was grey or pink or orange. And from the roots of the first tree the cloud's conscious form was born, a young handsome man.
We grew together, the four of us. Hánuxa and Lëm always stayed away, I don't know why. It was the three of us, eager to learn, eager to live in this strange land, and Mimir who always followed us around. And boy, did I like him, sometimes I'd hide from my sisters and climb a tree with Mimir and we would talk and watch the sky, and how he would change colours and shapes at my request. They were good days, bright days. Neither Sonja or Skylar understood what I felt, but I didn't care.
It wasn't too long until Ulamineska created again. Five dragons were born from it's roots. They were small at first, the five of them extremely different from each other, but of the same kind at the same time, like my sisters and me. We felt in our hearts that it was not up to us to help them, that though very different from us, they were like the trees and the flowers, and they would grow and they would die at their own time. The dragons grew and flew away to different points of the land, rarely we left the forest of the First Tree, but the dragons flew away, distancing themselves from us. Like this, all kinds of fauna were born, and dispersed themselves through the land. Each animal was very different, with diverse habits and feeding needs; feeding. That was something we have never heard of until the animals. What do moons and stars and suns and clouds feed of? My sisters and I were never as curious, we tried what the animals tried, and we learnt to mix the flavors, but it was all hollow to us. Mimir though, found that the dew from the flowers and the rain and the water made him feel strong, and we saw how Lëm began tearing apart dead animals and ate their meat, while Hánuxa had a fancy over the animals that lived beneath the water. But nothing filled my sisters and I.

IV

There was a whole world right beneath our feet, there was sky and ground, flora and fauna, and our spirits that inhabited it, but there wasn't balance, not yet. There was something else, the last creation Ulamineska would make. The Hearthborns. A hundred men, shaped like Lëm or Mimir rose from the roots of the first tree, and then a hundred women, like Hánuxa and us, but that was all they were, like the animals that were born before them, they had only one physical form, they were mortal, they were finite. They had needs, like the animals, they fed with meat like Lëm and they drank water like Mimir, they covered their skin with fat from the water-animals and they named everything like Hánuxa. We all took interest in those Hearthborns, there were so many of them, and they mingled and mixed in strange ways, and looked up to us in our powers and wisdom, which my sisters and I, if as well we didn't share everything, we helped them and taught them little things we knew, and the sun and the moon were like a father and a mother to the people. Hánuxa taught them speech and Lëm taught them how to hunt and how to eat. We observed them more from the far, not mingling with them as much, but intervened when it was needed, we learnt properties of flowers and plants and everything that surrounded us that could help the Hearthborns. I came to envy them, they were so beautiful! They loved too, like Mimir and I, they hurt and they smiled, they lived so much and felt so much. They discovered many things we never would have learnt in our own.
But they were too many for the forest, the people with Lëm and Hánuxa drifted away from the forest of Ulamineska, like other animals and the dragons had, and the ones who remained slowly became more special. Not only the Hearthborns, but the animals too. The closer to the First Tree they lived, the more conscious and intelligent they were, we could listen to their thoughts and understand each other, and they had a special connection to the tree, even stronger than our own. The people who stayed on the other hand, were curious, like us, and we helped them and guided them through their discoveries.

V

One of the men who stayed in the forest discovered fire, and with words he could bend it. Acui was with his younger brother Makus, Acui was a grown man already, how fast time passed for these people, he was hitting some small stones between each other to pass the time, among those stones there was a sewali one, and as Acui hit this stone with another, sparks of light and electricity blew from the friction, he began to repeat the process until it was clear to him. Makus fetched dry feathers and twigs and all he could find, and Acui directed the sparks towards this, and both of them, and the three of us (for it we are stars and in the sky we see everything) saw how the fire ate the twigs and shone bright and warm. The brothers enjoyed the fire and found it soothing to be close to it, while awake, and while they slept. They came out of the woods to show it to the other people, all the things that could be achieved with this new discovery, how it could keep them warm, how it could cook the meat, dry skins, bend or harden strips of bark and thin poles. The people loved it and welcomed it, and marveled at Acui's ability to manipulate it, sometimes he would whisper words and the fire would become greater or smaller, even change colours, until one day, fire accidentally burnt down someones home, and a child inside it. That's when they realized fire not only created but also destroyed, and Acui's gifts were frown upon, he returned to the forest, almost as a recluse. But not before he quarreled with his brother, Acui maintained that the fire they had built in the village where the people lived should never be killed, for from it the people fed their own fires, but Makus said that the people should work hard to make their own fire, to make it an effort to create this that was as useful as it was destructive. The brothers now separated, the people looked upon Makus for guidance to what would become of the fire, which was both loved and feared. The younger brother, for he still loved his eldest, decided to respect him in a way, without betraying his thought, and so every night, the Hearthborns would gather twigs and branches and all that was needed and together they would build a fire to warm their homes and cook their meals, and the last person to stay up would have the job of putting it down. Makus always waited for his brother Acui to come and join him in front of the great fire, so that they would put it out together, but it was always him alone that watered the ashes so that fire would not be reborn.

VI

As time passed we saw the mortality of the Hearthborns was far lesser than our own, that was what probably marked their lives and so, to use the little time they had they explored and learned as much as they could, and I always loved that about them. They would build with logs and trunks little homes in which the families would sleep together. We saw them come and go, and their own personal way of everlasting was through the other Hearthborns born from inside of them, a creation made out of love. They named their children after the land that welcomed them when they were born, and they would sail in canoes with their families even before they would learn how to walk. We have always feared the waters, for they are the ancient force before Ulamineska and us, for it is the opposite of what gave birth to this glorious land, but the Hearthborns seemed greatly at peace with it, they would live from it and feed from it, they were more at peace by the shore than by the trees.
But the trees were our home, and under their cover the people would seek us out for our knowledge and help, and we would help them so the land that gave us birth would live at peace. Soon, I suppose grateful for our support, Ulamineska gifted my sisters and I with spiritual companions; never will I forget when I chanced to look upon the eyes of my deer, he looked back at me and into my soul and my form, and in our minds and in our hearts we would be forever connected. Sonja had settled her eyes on a brown owl and Skylar on a fox, and they would share with us great wisdom and guidance, as well as love and support, and with them, we reached even greater knowledge and practice, soon the Hearthborns that would come to the forest to learn not in their lifetimes could learn as much as we. Soon, nonetheless, the ones who came seeking for knowledge such as ours, began to connect with other animals as well, and would follow our footsteps, or they would be closer to Hánuxa and her strange magic, or they would go to my Mimir and learn of the future, past and present, about fate and prophecies.

VII

We hadn't realized how far away we have drift off from our cousins the Hearthborns until we perchance found ourselves tangled in the personal story of a particular one. Dabi came to us in the forest seeking for help, for she found herself in a trap, where a man whom she had been had gotten her pregnant so as to ensure their romantic union in marriage, but she did not love him, she said to us, and I understood. Of course, we knew of a way, we know all, so we helped her end what was inside her womb to leave before it's time, and she was a free woman again. Never were we thanked so, and we had gained a friend who would visit us often to tell of her daily tales, of course my sisters and I did not refuse this friendship and rejoiced in what knowledge we could gather from the lady, for we were now foreigners of the costumes the people outside the forest had. A day came in which she told us, she was in love with another man, her face painted with long lines, she told of how he had brought wood to the family home, thus clearing their new relation.
Dabi didn't take long in falling pregnant again, and this time my sisters and me helped her have her child, as Sonja delivered the baby Skylar laid next to her in her same position as if she were also giving birth, to accompany her. I cut the cord, like so many times before, and made an amulet for it and gave it to the mother, who gracefully held her new son, born beneath a Kuturn, and so he was named after the place he was born. But before we could find a guardian spirit to protect the boy, Sonja stood up and felt how the boys soul was taken away from him, Dabi former lover using dark powers had stolen his soul and ran away so fast Sonja could not catch him. The mother held her child while it was still living, and I set off to find the father as Sonja the perpetuator as Skylar stayed with Dabi and Kuturn, and what I found was horrible and outrageous, Dabi's lover was dead inside his very own home, the blood slowly leaking from his chest. I came back beneath the Kuturn tree to tell of the death and so did Sonja, for the killer had jumped to the water and drowned so that she could not take back the soul that was not his, but his own was probably still swimming in the water, undisturbed, unpunished. Dabi wept and wept and her sadness new no end, for her lover and now her child were dead. We painted her face and told the people of her story, and saw how the elder lighted fires and sang a song of mourning, and she sang it too, and we learnt it, and sang it too.

lit a fire

lit a fire

for a dear one

went away

to join the wind and trees.

paint your sorrow

paint your sorrow

paint your face

so he will know

that we're hurt and yet rejoice.

And in breeze and rain

and in night or dawn

he will sing amongst the birds.

With the leaves and waves

in the snow or spring

He will dance all night and day.

In the river

in the river

in the river or the seas

his spirit will be dancing

Lit a fire

(painted faces)

Lit a fire

(in the river)

Lit a fire

for our dear

who dances in the water.

(lyrics by Kalen López)

VIII
Myth adaptation 

IX

The first war

X

Stars don't live forever

This is the island of the lost

Where am I? Nothing, but a lost island. I look around and all I find is sea, water calm and still, and the night has fallen dark on my surroundings. It is cold and breezy, and I am wearing nothing but a dream. No stars in the sky tonight, I don't know where I am. In my hair there are twigs and branches, no sense in trying to brush it, so many knots it would hurt. I know how I got here, I swam in the sea of hope while it was still day, and then the sun began to dawn and I found this earth, and now that the night fell, I am nothing but a lost hope. Could I wait until the light of day? Oh, how comforting is the sun, I remember it, how it plays with the skies and paints it with all the colours. But now there is nothing but black and cold. I am a dream, all I do is think, I can put myself together and create something beautiful, I can make art out of sadness and the hollow, but on this island I see nothing to work with. This is the island of the lost, I decided, and here I am broken. How long will the night last, how long can I stand without the sun? A dream unseen is a dream that does not exist, and all I want to do is shine. But I am lost. I touch the water with my foot, it's even colder than the air, and it burns with it's icy waves. A dream always knows what to do, a dream can always find the way around, but how to create a lead, if there is no light? I am lost, and I am alone. Where have all the other dreams gone? How did I divide from the rest so drastically without noticing? I thought we were swimming together, but now I think, I lost my way from them. How did my hair got so messy? I should try to brush it, even if it hurts, but now, I don't want to. I don't want to do nothing, I can't seem to find the inspiration without my beautiful skies. I am alone. I think, this way, I will fade away before the lights come again, how does a lost, broken dream survives alone? How do I live, without someone to dream me? I try to dream myself, I myself have become the subject I tend to work on; something sad. But how do I convert myself into something beautiful? I don't have any tools on this island, how come I have swam all my way here without anything other than me? What a foolish little dream I am.

I put my feet in the water again, it's icy cold but still. My feet will eventually get used to it, as I will get used to the loneliness, but oh, how I don't want to be alone, not on this starless night. I don't mind being on my own if there is sunlight, or moonlight, if there is wind to play with, and autumn leaves to paint with. But how lost I am, how am I to survive? I have been forgotten, or hated, my dreamer left me to die, surely, without someone to dream me, how not to fade away? Remember me, oh, remember me, dreamer, bring me back sunlight, give me a clear sky, give me the light with which I'll make the way, I know I can, I am the best at finding hope, I'll help you, only, believe in me, please. Don't forget me, don't let me go, don't hate me. I don't want to die.

What a selfish dream I am. But what else could I do right now, there is nothing to look at. I can't feel my feet anymore. I am scared, I live the twigs and branches untouched on my knotty hair, and my feet are still on the water. I lay down on the sand of this small island, and I look up, but there is nothing more than black.

I feel like my eyes are closed, but they are not. What difference would it make? I close my eyes, and I feel sleepy, so I fall into slumber.

And as I sleep

I disappear 

Lo que yace en lo profundo

Y su cuerpo ella ya no controlaba, una fuerza mucho mayor la manejaba, la empujaba junto con el viento. Sus pies descalzos chocaban contra las rocas con tal fuerza que su piel se desgarraba , la sangre corría y sus uñas se astillaban; pues Laila peleaba con todas sus fuerzas contra aquella magia que la obligaba a encontrarse con su destino, su aparente final. Frente a ella sus cabellos negros, como el plumaje de los cuervos, tapaba su visión, pero más allá de ellos veía el cielo gris y aquel horizonte infinito surcado por el mar.
El mar. Estaba siendo llevada hacia el mar. Y la marea comenzaba a alzarse y acercarse peligrosamente hacia Laila. El viento chocaba y las olas subían con sonido tan ensordecedor que si hubiese ella podido gritar, ni siquiera alguien junto a ella la hubiese escuchado, pero estaba sola.
Estaba siendo desterrada. Desterrada de su tierra materna y de la tierra de la cual se enamoró, de aquellos pocos a quienes tenía guardados en su pequeño corazón. Le hubiera gustado que el cielo no fuese gris, le hubiera gustado poder despedirse, poder ver el sol en lo alto o el color en los árboles. Pero aquí no habían árboles, habían rocas y cielo gris, y la marea que subía peligrosamente en su completo aumentaba con cada paso. Era arrolladora, aplastante y por sobre todo abrumador. Todos sus conocimientos no la ayudaron para salvarse del mar que vino por ella, las olas la cubrieron como una sábana y la espuma se tragó su alma y la aplastó y la llevó hasta su abismo más obscuro, donde ella perdió el conocimiento y se volvió parte del mar, donde sin conciencia alguna cumplió su destierro.
Esa memoria de ser engullida por las profundidades era constante en su mente, y el momento se congeló para siempre mientras todo lo demás fue negro. Obscuridad sin fin y sin recuerdos: vacío.
Por eso cuando volvió a abrir los ojos, finalmente en control de su cuerpo, estaba tan horrorizada y aturdida, perdida y desconcertada. El repentino despertar hizo que sus ojos, cuyos párpados habían estado cerrados tantos años, se abrieran y observara todo a su alrededor sin poder hacer coherencia alguna de las imágenes y colores. Se concentró en ella misma, lo primero que pudo ver fueron sus piernas; se notaban los huesos de sus rodillas, nunca fue ella tan escuálida. Intentó moverlas, más no pudo. Una sustancia viscosa y extraña las cubría,ella las sentía gelatinosas y frágiles, sus brazos y manos, todo su cuerpo, temblaba. Estaba siendo sostenida, alguien tenía su por brazos protectores, frente a ella había un niño de unos 10 años aproximadamente, de ojos celestes, grandes y curiosos que la miraba indiscretamente. Laila usó toda su fuerza para poder girarse y ver quién la sujetaba, era un hombre por seguro, pero su cara cambiaba y pasaba de un hombre mayor con canas y arrugas, a un joven de cabellos oscuros y largos; y mientras las marcas en su cara transmutaban él dijo “Laila, Laila, soy yo”, Intentando darle confianza musitó “Skule”. Ella lo miraba con ojos perdidos, ¿Conocía a aquel hombre cambiante? Su cabeza se sentía oprimida y no podía recordar, creía que sí pero cómo saberlo por seguro “Todo va a estar bien”.
Su voz y su nombre hacían que algo apareciera en un rincón lejano y profundo de la mente de Laila y pensara, era como un recuerdo o como una sensación de melancolía, no podía saberlo.
Ella seguía temblando a pesar de el aliento que aquel hombre intentaba darle, sus labios no podían separarse para emitir ni un sonido, y no sentía que todo estaría bien, a pesar de estar siendo cargada por ese hombre los cimientos de donde se encontraban se movían, se balanceaban, ella lo sentía, había un continuo movimiento; y no distinguía si el sonido de las olas era un fantasma de sus pesadillas que la perseguía en su despertar.
Negó con la cabeza. Las cosas no estaban bien, no estaban bien para nada. Su cuerpo no dejaba de temblar y cada una de sus respiraciones se sentía como la primera y la última. Una imagen golpeó su cabeza tan fuerte que creyó perder la conciencia, sentía las palpitaciones de su corazón dentro de su cráneo y podía ver las olas que chocaban contra las rocas y se alzaban en lo alto sobre ella, cayendo ahogada, podía sentir el olor de las algas y saborear la sal, podía sentir el frío y el agua que la acariciaban con torpeza, y la imagen se esfumó, pero en su cabeza seguía latiendo con fuerza el dolor. Al fin pudo despegar sus labios y tomó una bocanada de aire tan grande como pudo, sin animarse aun a utilizar su voz. Sus dientes chocaban entre ellos, observó y descubrió que estaba en un bote, no, una embarcación, un barco… vio a su alrededor, un barco pequeño en medio del mar, y el pánico entró en sus venas tan rápido como el corazón bombea sangre. “No”, murmuró y negó con la cabeza con todas sus fuerzas. El niño sentado enfrente alargó sus pequeños dedos hasta el corazón de Laila, y un calor se esparció sobre su cuerpo, dejó de temblar, el niño sonrió y en su pequeña sonrisa con hoyuelos se notaba que en realidad era una pequeña niña, una niña del mundo natal de Laila. Cómo le dolía la cabeza pensar en su mundo natal, ¿Cómo se llamaba aquel lugar del que provenían?
Las olas la seguían atormentando, pero ahora se podía concentrar. Volvió a mirar atrás y Skule era un hombre joven con cara de extrema preocupación, posó su mirada detrás de él y detrás de su respiración, y pudo ver y escuchar las olas abrumadoras. Comenzó a reconocer su cara, era alguien a quien ella conocía. Por eso le dijo algo que sólo le diría a alguien en quien confiaba, y le susurró en su oído cerrando los ojos “sácame de aquí”. Skule asintió con la cabeza y luego miró a la niña disfrazada de niño e intercambiaron palabras que Laila, aun aturdida, no se molestó en escuchar. Los brazos que la sostenían la sujetaron con más seguridad y se levantó en el aire, luego de unos pasos entró en una sombra y se sumieron en la más profunda y vacía oscuridad, una oscuridad seca y fría. No se veía absolutamente nada, pero cuando Laila cerraba sus ojos para pestañear, volvían a caer sobre ella una por una las gotas del mar hasta cubrirla por completo. Cuando volvió a abrir sus párpados, estaban frente a una cabaña en el bosque, el sonido de las olas no parecía haberse ido por completo; Laila no reconocía aquella construcción alpina alta y de madera, con balcones y escaleras que salían de un balcón a otro y se veían como un laberinto de escaleras y ventanas, donde arriba del todo había una cúpula con un ventanal oscuro.
“¿Crees que puedas caminar?” Ella no estaba segura, había dejado de temblar pero no había tocado suelo firme desde…Había perdido toda noción del tiempo. Miró sus piernas y recapacitó en que estaba desnuda, lo exclamó en voz alta y su protector se rió. “Si, lo estas. Eras una sirena hasta hace un rato, las sirenas no se visten”.
Ella decidió ignorar toda esa situación y preguntó “¿Cuánto tiempo pasó? ¿Qué lugar es este, es tu casa?” Laila tartamudeaba por el frío, él negó con cabeza y ella se tensó. Escuchó entonces un sonido extraño y miró devuelta hacia la alpina, donde habían algunos gatos jugando y un gran pavo real blanco mirándolos, era aquel animal quien había emitido tal ruido. Un instante después, la puerta se abrió y de allí salió una mujer con cabellos rojos y ojos color miel, de piel blanca y suave, que llevaba una capa de un verde inglés. Los observó con curiosidad, y cuando posó sus ojos en Laila se sobresaltó, enseguida los invitó a pasar, con palabras cálidas le ofreció abrigo y le dio una habitación con una cama donde, según dijo la bruja de la cabaña, debería descansar.
Laila no quería ayuda alguna, no quería sentirse desesperada como se sentía, ella necesitaba ser fuerte como siempre fue y poder salir como si nada hubiera pasado, pero cuando tocó tierra vomitó y luego a 5 pasos de levantarse se volvía a caer. Estaba extremadamente flaca, y sus dedos tanto los de sus pies como los de sus manos estaban congelados, no podía negar la ayuda de la bruja, aunque no quería ayuda. Cada vez, absolutamente cada vez que cerraba sus ojos, la figura de ella misma parada en la playa de piedras, sola en aquel infinito horizonte, enfrentando algo que no pudo vencer, aquella desesperante y solitaria imagen y la sensación de ahogo volvían a ella. Vencida, ya que no podía seguir su propia voluntad, quedó a merced de aquella mujer quien la dejó acostada en aquella cama y se fue a hablar con Skule. Charlaron en voz baja, historias se contaron y preguntas se hicieron, mientras, en el dormitorio, las pesadillas sobre profundidades obscuras donde los pulmones se sofocan y la visión se nubla.
Habían huesos. Infinita cantidad de huesos cubrían lo profundo. En la pesadilla estaba nuevamente desnuda, y caminaba sobre los huesos, que se clavaban en la planta de sus pies, y se esparcían y movían a medida que caminaba sobre ellos, el sonido que emitían los movimientos de los huesos era fuerte y claro, con un eco que resonaba en aquella profundidad.
A medida que caminaba se acercaba a algo que irradiaba luz, una figura humana sentada en aquel claro de huesos, era una joven cubierta por un velo blanco, de cabellos negros y con una corona gris puntiaguda, estaba dándole la espalda por lo que Laila por lo que no podía ver su rostro. Resonaba bajo el mar una voz oscura que se pegaba en el inconsciente de la mente, palabras que se hundían dentro de tu carne y se pegaban a tus huesos, que hacían eco en tu inconsciente.
“No deberías temer lo que yace en lo profundo”. La imagen en el sueño cambiaba nuevamente al momento donde la espuma de las olas cubrían a Laila como una sábana, y luego volvía a aquel claro de los huesos, y la voz susurró devuelta “Solo son huesos”. Se escuchaba a resonancia en aquella profundidad, y a medida aquella joven se giraba para ver a Laila, las olas volvían, la chocaban, absorbían y la arrastraban contra su voluntad, y así ella se despertó de un salto, con su corazón latiendo más de lo que lo recordaba capaz de latir.
La bruja que la hospedaba, se encontraba sentada junto a ella en su despertar, al hacer contacto visual le sonrió, y la visión de ella la relajó de alguna manera a Laila. Sentía un halo protector y sentía que había recuperado sus fuerzas, “Me llamo Yvette, y te voy a ayudar, no te preocupes. Yo te voy a acompañar, dime Laila, ¿Recuerdas algo aparte de tu destierro?”
Esta vez, cuando intentó recordar, ya no palpitaba su cabeza, venían imágenes, un oso blanco y Skule, una nube de oscuridad que rodeaba a una mujer con cabellos de tentáculo, peleas y luchas contra criaturas malignas. Recordaba no haber nacido en aquel mundo de magia, brujas y animales que hablaban, pero no podía recordar nada de su tierra natal. Todo eso contó a la bruja protectora, y lo primero que Yvette le dijo luego de escuchar en silencio, fue;
“No es culpa del mar lavar todas las memorias del pasado y devolverlas erosionadas”

De transeúntes efímeros

Al crecer en una isla
Donde todos llegan
Y todos se van
Uno aprende
Quiera o no
Que nada es para siempre
Y que todos se van
Sin importar las circunstancias

Y al crecer en una isla
De transeúntes efímeros
Aprende de chico
A desprenderse
El que no te encariñes
Por que vas a tener que decir adiós
En un punto u otro
Por que todos llegan
Y todos se van

Y el crecer en una isla
Con esta creencia
Inserta en nuestros huesos
Se crea una desconfianza
Un temor a amar, a atarse
A algo que sabes que
Inevitablemente
cruzará el mar
Y te dejará atrás

Y cuando creces en una isla
Donde el desarraigo se enseña
Uno piensa que vivirá siempre
Viendo a todos quienes van y vienen
Y que sufrirá cada separación
Pero tal vez no se imagina
Que en algún momento
También te tocará irte
Porque todos llegan
Y todos se van

the alliterative T poem

There is something
That I want to tell to all who I know
That I want to write and shout and sing
Though I know of the power of words
The power of giving away something so deep and my own
That it can seize to exist and vanish just as I say it
That it can make it all go away and cause my happiness to perish
There is a reason why I don't tell it or write it or shout it or sing it, I am afraid
That it might go away
Though I believe, writing it here, could do no harm
That is, I think this time it can be
That this time it could be real
That it is possible for me, that it could happen, and it just might,
That things are going well so far, and funnily, I don't know what to do
Things have never reached this far and I am so used to misery and loneliness
This situation is a stranger to me
Thus I fear, I fear hope, I fear failure, I feel the perish of my own heart and happiness
Traveling from my mind down into my soul there is something that is happening that is new
This is what I want to shout. I think this time it might be.
This time it is possible, and my hopes and dreams may conquer the misfortune
That this world ruled by irony always threw upon me

The hollow girl

Sleeping creatures

I'm in love with the sleeping
How their corpses slowly yet firmly demonstrate each breath
How the factions on their faces is calm and neutral
How delicate and fragile they seem
It's beautiful
Their chests rising and falling
Their breath so marked and constant, never failing, never changing
It has a unique beauty
And it wakes in me a need to protect, to keep them warm, not to let any shadow get to them, so they can keep sleeping
And keep on being beautiful
And I stay vigilant as I observe with love my sleeping protegee
I wonder if my love is only there while they sleep
If I can hold them forever in my protection
If I could watch their slow breathing forever

a photography of words

I love sunsets. Even when the sun is already gone.

The clouds all low and the clear blue sky in all shades from light to dark.

And that occasional star, that might as well be a planet further off.

The vapor coming from the chimney of the ridiculously green house at front.

The clouds are darker than the very sky, I can't stop looking at this sight

With the tears of rain in my window and the green wet grass not far

It all has such a sense of possibility, just staring feels like magic

Like an infinite little moment where the picture freezes 

And you don't think about anything, except the very thing you are observing

And you wouldn't like anything else in the world

And you don't want this moment to ever stop,

Not for the deep night to fall, nor the next day to come

Just this frozen moment; a photograph of words

The tree in front which I always see change with the seasons

The street light turned on, enlightening the pavement and the cars parked outside

And inside I am in this couch, it's colour hard to describe

And my cat has come to say hullo, 

And I must leave

For nothing is eternal.

Inspiration comes to me when I'm tired,
When I'm about to doze off and lie in bed; words, melodic phrases and images of beauty come to my mind
And I simply go to sleep, imagining that the morrow the feeling will wait for me still as it was the eve, and I shall produce those images into what people may or may not call art.
This never happens. This images and words of melody are so ephemeral...if you don't catch the glimpse of them and imprint them in the moment to make them last forever, they shall leave forevermore
And not a soul will know of them, because even I will forget.
For I am tired, and I fall asleep, with no will power to stand up and write things down. And so like a ghost this pictures in my mind and the sentences with them fly away like a dandelion's seed in a valley of opportunities, finding a place to root.

The charmed book

PART 1
WAXING MOON

1

The mystery of the book

Prescilla was nine years old when the charmed book opened. The event was a complete surprise, but she was waiting for it. It all happened due to a chain of events, that would better be explained from the beginning. And so by the sweeping of the pages of this old book the memories of what was before came to her mind, Yvette was right, Prescilla thought.

The Forester family lived in Blackthorn Road, in the outsides of Canterbury, England. It was a small good family, just like any other.

This family was composed firstly by the father, who was a policeman and worked in London. He was a man who took care of his family and fought the dangers and put nasty people into jail. He liked to think of himself as a detective, and he was a huge fan of Scooby Doo. He liked reading, watching movies and playing videogames (it reminded him of his childhood). Although he was a very brave man, he had the best taste in music, he loved some good rock music and not that thing people call music, rap for him was outrageous. He enjoyed rock & roll and loved his old car, but more than this he loved his wife.

She was a very strong, independent and passionate woman; she was very clever and humble. She was in between jobs mostly.
She had brown-dyed hair and dark eyes, her hair-length reached her shoulders and no further, she was a bit short compared to her husband, but most woman are, right?
What she loved was drawing Zen-art, and inviting friends over to her house and being the great host she was

The father and the mother had a daughter called Prescilla, their little girl who liked reading and adventures, the little girl who, when their cat died and they buried it in the backyard, every night she would lock all the doors and windows, fearful of the cat turning into a zombie. Prescilla had long curly blond hair, and blue eyes like her father’s. She used to like dressing up and playing with the children of her mom’s friends. Prescilla amongst all her toys and stuffed Spiderman; her favourite toys were Morph and Bunny.

This was the normal family that lived in the end of Blackthorn road, in their two-stored house with a car for her mother and other for her father, and his special vintage car saved in the garage.

But besides these little things the Foresters were really good people, so not much bad happened to them, until her mother’s health gave a terrible turn, and she got worse.

What gave this family a very special touch was the fact that since Prescilla could remember, her parents had applied for receiving students from other countries as guests in their house. Prescilla was 6 years old when a very special visit came to her home, she was more than used to those girls from all around the world staying in her house, coming and going, she had this folder in which she wrote about the places where they came from, with the flags, the languages and all.

Her mom just had her hand operated when two girls from some south-american countries came for 3 weeks, usually the girls didn’t stay that long, so maybe she could get to know this new girls well. They spoke good English, Prescilla realized about this because some girls would just not talk much, or speak in their own language only, or just lock themselves in their own room.

Prescilla was really happy with the girls; the youngest was thirteen, named Kernel, with curly hair the colour of walnut and green eyes, she usually was away from the house busy with her classmates, but she still got time to talk and play with her. The oldest was sixteen, she was named Yvette and she made her a drawing on the day they met, it was Prescilla dressed as an astronaut, they put it on the fridge. Yvette had red hair and light brown eyes, her skin was so white you’d imagine she came from the Antarctica. She was always happy and liked walking through Blackthorn Road in the morning to see the sunrise and the hooting of the owls from the trees, and she loved it when she found cats in the neighbourhood.

In the weekend of the second week, Prescilla’s mom had to get her shoulder operated, just when it was Bunny’s birthday! Apparently the girls had the day off, and while the youngest went for a walk with her mates and teacher, Yvette stayed to draw and spend time with the family. Of course Prescilla invited her to Bunny’s birthday party, she made an invitation and all. Then she helped her foreign friend to chose a gift for Bunny from her bedroom, she chose a book. When it was about time they came to Bunny’s party, which was at the living room, they played, they danced, and then it was scheduled to see a movie.

“Have you ever seen Spiderwick?” Asked Prescilla.
“No, I have not, what is it about?” Said Yvette with a smile.
“Oh, you’ll see” She laughed, and put the movie and sat together in the couch to see it.

This movie woke several thoughts in Yvette’s mind, like “Those earthling movies, so creative, so imaginative, I love them.” It also made her consider something that would change everything, or nothing. She looked at Prescilla, who was immersed in the movie, she seemed like a curious clever girl, the kind of girl who is brave enough to explore the lands where Yvette REALLY was from.

When the movie had finished, the travelling girl felt the urge to do it, and as she couldn’t help herself, she said it.

“I’ve got something for you, it is something I have that this movie reminded me of, wait here while I go fetch it” And she blinked an eye to Prescilla as she disappeared from sight. When she came back, she was holding a book; a very old-looking book, very beautiful and strange. “This, Prescilla, is a Charmed book. There are very few like this and little who know how to read it and use it, I want you to have it, I have another copy at home. Maybe one day, when the right time comes you’ll be able to open it, it may be in some years, but still.” Then her smile wasn’t as wide as before “And remember what this movie teaches, adventures and magic comes with a price” She warned, and Prescilla grabbed the book and it was quite heavy, with curious eyes she looked at her friend, she wondered; would she be able to have an adventure like in Spiderwick? “No one, absolutely no one else must know about this book, you keep it to yourself, alright?” Yvette smiled at her “I have a feeling I can trust you with this”.

That was the secret gift Prescilla had that nobody else knew about except for Yvette, who faded away after the three weeks they were staying at her home.

Time passed, other girls from around the world came and left, her mom kept getting more and more operations, and the book was never opened, it seemed as if the book was waiting.

3 years later, Prescilla was 9 years old, and was worried sick about her mother’s health. Her dad one day came to her and told her the inevitable plan of taking her to her granny’s for some time, because her mom had to be in a hospital in London for a while and he was to be with her, and working.

Granny lived in Brighton with Prescilla’s father’s sister. He took his daughter there and after checking everything was all right said farewell, which made Prescilla quite sad because she didn’t want to be without her ma and pa. She suddenly became a very lonely child, far away from her friends, without her mother and father, stuck with two old ladies who didn’t play or talk with her. Her aunt and granny didn’t know how to keep a conversation equal and thought that since she was small they could ignore whatever Prescilla said.

She didn’t forget her charmed book, she always carried it with her, and tried to open it every time she achieved something; like riding a bike on her own, or learning to swim, or having A+ at school. It reminded her of Yvette and Spiderwick, even if it had been so long ago, she always had the hope it would open and she would see what it had that was so charmed and secret.

On a sunny day, her aunt and grandma took her for a walk and left her in the park in front to the Royal Pavilion while they went shopping. Prescilla first got herself into the museum close to the park, hoping it was free and she didn’t have to pay to get inside; it was. She got lost in those rooms full of art and history, and when she found the way out, she sat in the park, observing the tall trees and the protective fences. From her bag (where she carried anything she might need) she took the book, to touch the cover in wonder with her curious little fingers. It had a belt that in the joint it had spikes holding onto the book (which was what kept it closed and un-open-able) it also had a five-pointed star. It was purple-ish brown; the pages were very yellow so it definitely was an old book.

Just in that moment, sitting in the grass observing the book, Prescilla didn’t know why, but the five spikes started to unlock and so the belt was free to be opened and peak inside the book. When she looked around she saw she was alone in the park. The wind was light, there were tourists making line in the Royal Pavilion, and she had the opportunity to finally inspect the secrets hidden inside her book; something she had waited for so long, excitement ran over her and her heart beating fast. It was written in some strange language, but as soon as she laid her fingers on the paper, the words seemed to change and turn into English, still, it had a lot of odd words and complicated names. It had several drawings and it DID remind Prescilla of the Spiderwick field book, because it was handmade, or so it seemed at least.

Inside it had spells, odd spells to hold fire in a crystal bowl and turn into liquid, differences between creatures, the different poisons of a dragon, how to cure a cold with plain grass, it had a lot more and maybe too much for that moment, so she closed it, but did not lock it, and put it back into her bag, fearful it would lock itself again.

Not long after, her aunt came for her in the car, she was with some friend of hers talking about some “interesting” course she took and how good the teacher was and that’s all Prescilla got to listen before her mind swept away into the window car.

“Your father just called; he said your mom just got inside the operation room. I told him we all wish for her best” Said her gran loudly. They were in the dining room and Prescilla was sitting in the table next to the window, reading The chronicles of Narnia, while grandma, aunt and Karen (aunt’s friend) were having a cuppa of tea and chatting. In the next room you could hear the telly on but there never was anyone watching it.
“I once had a friend who died of cancer” Said Karen.
“Oh dear, gosh” Said grandma
“Yes, I remember, she died in the friendship’s national day. I was with her, and just after I left she died and the doctors called me and I had to get back.”
“Dear me!” Said aunt
“I was taking care of her that day, and out of the blue she got nervous and said to me ‘Oh please, don’t leave, I am afraid, I don’t want to die’ and I was all like ‘Heeey, take it easy, you’re not going to die! I won’t leave, it’s ok, it’s ok.’ But it was like, all of a sudden she got all this nervous, you know what I mean?”
“Well, yes, yes, of course. You know, when she gets all…yes, yes, you know? Exactly my point” Said grandma.
“And later at night, her ex was coming to visit her, and I was about to leave the hospital, because my shift was over and another friend was coming to watch out for her, you know?”
“Nah, absolutely. You can’t stay, and you have to shift and you have to take turns and; well, yes, of course.”
“The moment when I left the hospital, her ex hadn’t arrived yet and the doctors had ringed me to tell me she was dead, and it was so fast! I mean I didn’t even had time to do anything, when I left the hospital”
“For Christ’s sake, God save her soul” Said aunt.
“At first, I felt so guilty for her death” Said Karen.
“Well, yes, I imagine, no wonder, feeling guilty after, yeah” Grandma added.

Prescilla thought her grandma couldn’t end and idea of her own, and when talking actually repeated what the other person just said. Tired of listening, she took her book and bag and got off to the backyard and sat there to stare at the clouds.

She always dreamt of travelling, and her pa and ma had promised her they would go to Egypt soon, but her ma’s health got worse and worse. Maybe one day when she’s gotten all better and out of the hospital they could travel to Greece and France and Egypt and all over the world along with her mother and father and be happy.

After staring at the sky, she took another look at the book, she read about guardian ghosts and dancing flowers, which danced in order to hide when danger was coming. It was all so beautiful; it was the world she always dreamt of visiting, it would be like all those worlds on books. She could go in there and turn into the queen and when coming back home, time wouldn’t have passed and she could be with her family and friends, and maybe one day come back. But it was just a book, a book that showed her wonders that would never reach her, that would only help her feel better while her parents were away.

Then, she found it. The very page, of the very book, that would lead her into the adventure.

The corner or the page was folded in order to find the page easy and quick if you needed it. The heading said, “TRAVELLING” but it didn’t say where to. It seemed like one of the spells from the book, but al the others needed stranger things than this one. So Prescilla thought, why not? There was nothing to lose, and it was just chalk that she needed to use. She didn’t know if it was full moon, but she could check it out at night.

That night after having dinner with her grandma, she looked out the window, it wasn’t full moon, but it was really close. So she went out to there anyway. She took the book, the chalk, and in the backyard, the house’s wall was in contact with grass, as it specifically asked in the book it should be that way. It was all perfect.

So she drew a door as tall as her arm could reach, and grabbed the book to read out loud “Darksome nights and shining moon, hearken to my joyous tune. Me who walks between two worlds conjure thee; A boundary to protect, that power raised here be not in vain. Therefore do I bless thee and consecrate thee, to travel free. By the power of moon and sun,” Prescilla looked at the wall, and then at the moon, nothing was happening. “So mote it be” She said at last. But nothing happened.

She sat in the grass, staring at the wall, at her drawn door. She sat there but nothing happened. She didn’t care; she would try again in a few days when it truly was full moon.

Prescilla decided to prepare a bag for her future journey, so along the next few days she stole apples, biscuits, chocolates, sandwiches from her grandmother and then her toothbrush and toothpaste, warm clothes just in case, and of course, the book. She would have taken Bunny and Morph, but she had left them at home, what she deeply regretted. It was then, the night of the full moon; she would know this by watching outside the window every night (every clear night) and see if it was full.

She was playing unblock me in her aunt’s mobile phone when she realized, it was time. She run to her bedroom (she actually slept with her grandmother) and got her rubber boots and her bag and asked permission to go outside and watch the moon, of course this was a strange request to her granny since the moon was such a common thing, but she gave her the permission, anyway.

The moon sat high in the sky, there were clouds all around it menacing of rain and storm, but it was quite cool. She turned to the wall and saw the old drawing of her door, and tried to erase it with her sweater, which didn’t work at all that much but it was well enough for her. The pressure made with the chalk this time was far stronger, as to mark the difference from the old one.

And so Prescilla began the ritual, which, this time, was far different from the first time, when her voice recited the chant, the wind began to whirl and make the grass flatten against all directions, and give her the chills, as she continued the speech (though shouting, for the wind increased and was getting stronger) and apple-greenish light appeared through the lines of chalk in the wall, and you could see no more chalk in it, for the light was getting stronger as well as the wind did, and for a moment all Prescilla could see was light, but she kept trying to say the words until the end.

“So mote it be!” She cried, for she felt she wouldn’t listen herself in the overwhelming sound of the wind. And there was no light coming out from the door, and the wind ceased, and the only thing she could pay attention now was…the wooden door that lay just in front of her. She couldn’t believe her eyes (but since she wanted to believe, she actually did). The charm had worked! That travelling door was right in front of her, and of course she was now ready to go.

It was so silent, you could hear the flight of a butterfly, or Prescilla’s breath, or most important, her heart beats, because her little heart was beating so fast that she stretched her arm into the door knock and as she held her breath when she turned it, there was the click of the opening. She pushed it.

The man in the room

There once was a man; quite thin, quite tall. He enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.

This man was in a room; quite small, quite closed. It was made of wood and had a Morning Glory Vine roof.

He sat there, thin and tall, in his house made of wood. His chair, he made it himself, his hands were rough and skilled, though his arms where long and thin.

The wooden house, covered in Morning Glory Vine, had only one window. It had four corners, no kitchen, no loo. The man was sitting there in the chair he made himself; he was looking out of the window.

Out of the window the man saw the Morning Glory Vine, all kind of little bugs walking on it. Further off were trees and grass, and a sky the man could not watch.

He sat there, thin and tall, looking to his Morning Glory Vines and the trees further off. His own chair below him, and books all around him. The house with one room was made of wood and it had nothing but a chair and loads of books.

The window was broad and wide, the trees were green outside. The house made of wood with a Morning Glory Vine roof, was in the middle of the field, surrounded by the trees. This room, it had no door, no way out.

The room with the man in it, not only it was made of wood, it was also warm. For the man, it all lasted forever, his eternal watch to the outside, but with his mind on the chair he made with his own hands. His hands where rough and skilled, though his arms where long and thin.

The man in the room was sitting there, all alone, with a window to the past and loads of books. He was alone; he could not help it, yet he did not build a door. This man, quite thin, quite tall, he was ephemeral, one moment he was there, the next moment he wasn’t.

So fleeting, so perishable, so light, so ephemeral. Did he, himself even existed? He was once a man, and he enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.

He sat there in the room he made himself with the chair he made himself, with his so skilful hands, and he looked through his window on his own, thinking, thinking about what, about everything! About the Morning Glory Vine that grew on his house, about the books all around, about that warmth and yet that cold, about the past and about the future.

He spent his life in the introspection of his house; there wasn’t an inch he did not know, the carved wood, every leaf in the Morning Glory Vine, his books, the window.

And yet every second lasted like centuries in that glorifying view of everything he craved for. Life was so still, there in the meadow. Life begun and death attacked. Cycles and cycles repeating again and again, the man in the room with Glory Morning Vines in the roof wondered, would there be a day when the world would die?

All alone staring out of the window in that house made of wood, he thought of someone he used to know, and a place he used to live in, and someone he used to be, and he thought how happy he was and he thought how sad he was. Because, for the man in the room, there is no happiness without sadness, and no sadness without happiness. The man both smiled and cried, and he sat still in the chair he made himself, with his hands so skilled.

It was all so still, so quiet, so soundless. He wondered if he was alive or if he was dead, he wondered what happens when we die and what happens before we are born, he wondered if he would ever see them again, if he would ever sleep eat or breathe again, if he would ever speak aloud again, if he would meet the end of his loneliness, if he would ever find a place to call home, if he would ever build anything again. He wondered.

Was there an end to infinity? How broad was the mind?

His house was small, because in a closed space you feel a little bit less lonely and yet you are completely alone to yourself. There was comfort in the small, it was cosy and it was warm. The Morning Glory Vine made it look both old and wise. The window let him see all he ever wished to see, both sad and happy things, and yet all so still.

There once was a man; quite thin, quite tall. He enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.