She may be Hana, by Paula De Oliveira Santos
There was an island that always lived in the corner of my dreams. The island was colored with hints of sun rays faded with a magenta glow. The core of her heart was black, drawing and mixing all the colors of the earth to the attention of the eye. The reflection of the ground was projected in the skies as architectural manifested arches of electric colors. On top of sharp rock, green grass grew so that the wind didn’t have to blow alone. Skies cry to paint the sun with rainbows while her earth roots itself deeper into the blue of the expansive ocean.
This was my island, where my form could be brought out amongst the illusions of the others. Here I would come so that I could realize my non existence and my importance. What my mind couldn’t imagine were the stories of the people who lived as mirrors of the remains floating behind this lost chunk of land. Here I would also find the dreamers without actions or borders, here were the people looking to float without giving themselves space to fly.
I landed there so I could realize the others. I isolated myself to find the circles of life. I became the flowing lava of the soil so that I could burn sense back into feeling emotions without pain to lighten individuals without desire, so that I could then leave.
My eyes turned into pages of stories upon arriving, the sad romances, the ideal plot, the mysteries, the hippies, the lost and confused, the thousand of pages of lies that people built around themselves so that they could convince them that it was the sun that made them shine, or the rain that made them cry. They came here to forget that it is their being that mattered and the rest were particles of matter. It was them who lost themselves and perhaps all intended to lead people to find themselves.
I had to leave to paradise so that I could realize that this island…this paradise. It didn’t exist.
What exists is the tropical forest inside ourself. The sun that shines with the moon everyday in the beating core of our chest. Where lava flows as blood, where people dig in to plant the seeds of truth. I found myself as my own island. Isolated, finding the alone feeling of being, the only needed voyage into our own soul.
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She may be Hana:
ReplyDeleteThere was an island that always lived in the corner of my dreams. The island was colored with hints of sun rays faded with a magenta glow. The core of her heart was black, drawing and mixing all the colors of the earth to the attention of the eye. The reflection of the ground was projected in the skies as architectural manifested arches of electric colors. On top of sharp rock, green grass grew so that the wind didn’t have to blow alone. Skies cry to paint the sun with rainbows while her earth roots itself deeper into the blue of the expansive ocean.
This was my island, where my form could be brought out amongst the illusions of the others. Here I would come so that I could realize my non existence and my importance. What my mind couldn’t imagine were the stories of the people who lived as mirrors of the remains floating behind this lost chunk of land. Here I would also find the dreamers without actions or borders, here were the people looking to float without giving themselves space to fly.
I landed there so I could realize the others. I isolated myself to find the circles of life. I became the flowing lava of the soil so that I could burn sense back into feeling emotions without pain to lighten individuals without desire, so that I could then leave.
My eyes turned into pages of stories upon arriving, the sad romances, the ideal plot, the mysteries, the hippies, the lost and confused, the thousand of pages of lies that people built around themselves so that they could convince them that it was the sun that made them shine, or the rain that made them cry. They came here to forget that it is their being that mattered and the rest were particles of matter. It was them who lost themselves and perhaps all intended to lead people to find themselves.
I had to leave to paradise so that I could realize that this island…this paradise. It didn’t exist.
What exists is the tropical forest inside ourself. The sun that shines with the moon everyday in the beating core of our chest. Where lava flows as blood, where people dig in to plant the seeds of truth. I found myself as my own island. Isolated, finding the alone feeling of being, the only needed voyage into our own soul.