Tricks that won't take your breath away

If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. But if I'm right, it's scary. So take a step back and read this.

They are more resilient than they look, so that an undetermined poke or half-hearted effort won’t break them. They are transparent, and this serves a double purpose; there is a comforting, almost pure feel to them but, more importantly, it makes it hard to tell which side you are facing from. They are tricky little devils whose shape can be distorted, creating a false illusion of change. But what changes is the shape, and that is superficial, the essence remains the same. They can take beautiful, iridescent colors that can lure and hypnotize into a state that has the warmth, safety and nostalgia of childhood. But worst of all, they merge. To form larger ones, which are the truly dangerous ones. Because, when trapped in a large one, you can’t see then ends of it. So you think you are free, when you are really not.

I only know because I used to be trapped in a bubble like that. Escaping it took a long time, and was the loneliest thing I ever had to do. Nowadays, it’s always there, floating nearby, like the illusion of a madman. Even though it’s heavy, filled with tears, fears and dark moments, it persistently won’t sink. It will never sink. That can be scary, but, in essence, it’s a gift. Because, knowing its resilience, I use it to float safely in turbulent waters. Letting the currents take me forward, until I reach happier moments, when I let go of it again. I’ve turned my bubble and the past it engulfs into a strength and an ally.

Today, as I walked past you and saw you walking backwards, you reminded me of the right way forward. And for that, I'll be grateful. I couldn’t take you that way, even if I set my mind on it. Because the slippery bubble you are trapped in escapes my hands. But I could be there for you as a friend, and I could show you some magic. Some basic bubble-breaking tricks. They wouldn’t take your breath away, but they would give it back to you.


p.s. [http://dolphinbubbles.net/]

A journey to Rome and You

Walking among the ruins of our past, you say there’s three arches to cross to reach you. I cross the first two in a heartbeat, sweet baby, but the third is our 'loco' idea of freedom.

I stand still under this solid arch at night, holding a glass in my hand. There's a blend of feelings inside it, 'but they are all distillates of love’ I tell you, 'and that's why it tastes like single malt'. A single malt that’s older than our years together, baby.

A million dense feelings, like Roman buildings crammed together. It feels like I can step out a door and into a window, and from there out of my soul and naturally into yours.

Spectators of our grand idea shout 'you are feeding each other to the lions’. But could the holding of hands be the gesture that keeps sparing our freedom?

And when the night falls, and everyone leaves the arena, could you turn on the moonlight and, humming the sound of a familiar waltz, take me for a peaceful stroll among the dead?

You ask me what I’m thinking, but I can’t reply. I am busy diluting this ‘loco’ idea with a thought, to bring out its flavour. That thought is “I love you”, and that's why we'll always have Rome.

Missing you is surreal, but I am calm in the centre of this whirlwind. I have the answer now, it’s ‘to return to Rome’.

And when the dust settles, and the the melody of ‘acuerdate de mi’ stops echoing, i'll still remember what single malt tastes like: a blend of love and freedom, and that blend tastes like you.

Maybe we didn't do that bad

In the midst of a sweet summer night, my love to be made a wish to a falling star for sweet, eternal love. Before the summer was over, the ‘butterfly effect’ took over and our cocoon was born. The protective, silky case that we would nurture for the months to come with the utmost care. It would grow to reveal this stunning butterfly that we would proudly name ‘Relationship’. It would open its wings and take us on an ever-lasting trip among the stars. Our kisses would taste of syrup, our skin would taste of ripe peaches and we would make love hovering beneath the moon, engulfed in a subtle aroma of freshly-cut grass. Pretty classic, you might think, only our fairytale would have no ending.

A fighter and winner by nature, my love to be set his mind and soul on raising the most beautiful creature of all. Our cocoon, he would tell me, ‘will reveal a butterfly with wings in a shade of deep blue, with orange splashes here and there’. ‘It will grow to be the king of the butterfly kingdom, the envy of all living, flying creatures’. I believed him because he was rarely wrong.

For nights and nights we slept on our opposite sides of the bed, with our fragile cocoon tucked tightly between us. But, sadly, perhaps opposing its nature, our cocoon grew worryingly slowly.

After kissing for hours, we would sit up in bed secretly counting its inches, scared to make words out of our fears. But they moistened the air, so much that after a while you could see droplets forming on the ceiling and crystallizing in the corners of the room. At times, our worries made the air so damp that, in the heat of the night, we could hardly breathe. The droplets would rhythmically fall on our foreheads, giving us a melodic but uneasy sleep.

My love to be grew uneasy by the second. I woke up one morning with silky fibers tangled in my hair and caught in my eyelashes. ‘When you turned your back on me last night’, he said, ‘I untangled some strings from our cocoon’. He was rushing the birth of our butterfly and I, the protective mother and stubborn child, would spin the fibers back into place every Sunday afternoon. ‘It’s just taking it’s time’ I used to tell him.

Shortly after New Year’s eve, our creature was finally born. It quietly opened its wings one morning but, like an underdeveloped child, it was crinkly and clumsy. Too fragile to be the king of butterflies we had dreamt of. Like my love to be had predicted, its wings were blue. But it was a pale and nostalgic shade, like the color of the Caribbean sea on a cloudy morning. Like predicted, there were surprisingly bright splashes of orange here and there but they looked unflattering, almost wrong, on the pale blue background.

Our butterfly, Relationship, lived another sixty days and sixty nights and, as peacefully as it had arrived, with no fireworks or celebrations, it fell on the floor with a dull thud, and died. I cried and cried for nights and nights. For not saving it.

I heard that the ancient word for butterfly is psyche, but we didn't give wings to eachothers' soul. I also heard that butterflies live from a week to nearly a year. With our half year of kissing, maybe we didn’t do that bad after all.