When I was five and six years old I liked to read, and even before see the figures of encyclopedias and comics; but there was no electric light so I just could do it till four o’clock (in the Andean highlands the sunset is usually at 5:30 pm, go figure) Older brother was in school and parents working so with nothing to do I just sat down in a wooden rocking chair to see the sunsets across the giant old pine. I wouldn’t be surprised if that old pal would be more than one hundred years. Probably because that reason, in part, I liked le petit prince, seeing again, and again, the sunsets; also the Hoppers’ paints, with people taking the sun alone.
One day I photographed a sunset until the twilight. Just because…
A black lady take off her golden clothes. Night has come.
Intersection of sunrise and building. I thought in that moment that it looked a bit cinematographic. Now I notice that perhaps I was trying to remember the Tyrell building in which is probably my favorite film ever, Blade Runner. At the beginning when the sun is precisely reaching the bold architecture of Tyrell Corporation.
Of course is just a far evocation. Something like think in a diamond when you see a shine in a grain of sand in the concrete.
The Moon is already shattering in lunar pieces. White rocks falling near to me, wanting to die in obstreperous kiss to forget the eons of silent marriage.
I’m outside and I won’t search a roof. I know you are real, I know I’ll hear one last time your voice enlightening my night of lunar dust.
Mental tricks XD
Perhaps you cannot see it in this size, always you can click it to see the image bigger, but there is the silhouette of a person in the window, in the point of the landscape. Perhaps a human-shadow, perhaps me in the past :P It’s precisely in the centre of that big eye, Can you see it? the circle of the sun would be the pupil, its light the iris and the clouds the eyelashes.
But also could be truth that that person is actually seeing me.
Beyond the walls of the city a pure sky and a fertile land; the delicacy of your heart like the sound of gentle drops.
Beyond the walls a late afternoon sun tinge in rose your cheeks.
Beyond the walls my incomplete story of you and me.
There is no better temple to the spirit that the one that you built for yourself, otherwise the soul is trapped into gold and marble jails of routines and rules.
I’ve visited several temples of several confessions and schools of thoughts; natives or foreign; but the only places where I can feel a sense of sacred is in just squares of concrete without windows, sometimes almost destroyed, sometimes barely a plane natural rock. They are open to earth, water or heaven. Without distractions they are open to you too.