Fool

Camus was clear about it, he married salt and the warmth of the sea With sand, with waves, Chenou and Tipas.

It had a beach; I, the pine forest. I enjoyed the embrace of something outside the square spectrum of society, strange in the distance of artificial light. I was struck by the honest misery of the real world and struck by the truth that I was part of a much bigger idea. “In the midst of the blackest of our nihilism, I was only looking for reasons that would enable me to overcome it.”

Inside is a grove where I found a piece of free-roaming spirita soul that is a part of everyone, that nourishes, that nourishes the very essence of being, but that is never tied to one body.

Between the holm oak and the oak, something foreign and familiar passes through the strawberries and acacia. A paradigm, a paradox that gives meaning to our very existence. We are earth and wood, glass and moss, united in a close relationship. “Our wretched tragedies smell of the office, and the blood they drip is the color of greasy ink.”

Poor people, those imbeciles who deny themselves the pleasure of living with a fleeting piece of the most primal nature. In it, in that colorful kaleidoscope of life, jumping from flower to flower, crawling on the moss, Flying over the dry branches of the road, you see how life lives around us. You can see it growing and dying, you can see it in the steadfast clouds that fly over us, in the withered leaves on the road, in the mushrooms in the meadow, you can hear it singing among the branches, you can feel it in the breeze and in the sunlight. It feels close,

alive, you just have to open it eyes to be able to perceive it. “And someone complains that he gets too tired soon, when we should be surprised that the world seems new to us because it has only been forgotten.

It looks so carefree, it dances between the pine forest and the sky, this life that surrounds me looks so alive, that I wonder where death will be found, where its existence will be reflected. within death I found that life and death no longer have meaning, now they are hidden, I could not find them. Is it perhaps hidden behind the bushes, among the juicy spring berries?

Or is it just a misunderstanding? Is it not possible that the gloomy music that plays when the lights go out, It’s not goodbye, but see you later. What if what we are promised, eternal life, is not hidden in the firmament that separates us, but is right in front of our noses?

What if we live in the predicted paradise and, not wanting to see beyond the length of our own consciousness, we miss the most rewarding truths? What if every flower is a soul, and every soul is a seed? “Seeing is believing and I do not persist in denying what my hands can touch and my eyes caress.”

Harmonic music, Aeolian waves flying between trees, leaves and branches, lhe flower and grass, everything ends with the fiery collapse of a star in the sky. And I, still thirsty, must go, leaving behind an oasis of answers. I leave ready to learn one single, immutable truth: beauty dissipates behind glass and aura dies in reflection. The human soul plays among pine, ash and oak. We are conscious nature observing itself.