A river going down the mountain. It's nothing. It's all. All the big oceans started to be before a little stream, flowing rock by rock down the steep slope. Only a blind mind could say that the little stream isn't powerfull. Every stream could be startling. Only potencially, you never knows. A little stream could dissapear into the rocks or can be dried, copullating with the, for the moment, white clouds. And, also, could be, few kiometers beyond, a strong river running down to hug the huge ocean. A stream is a stream. Nothing more. A step is a step. Nothing more. A day is a day. Nothing more. What's the meaning of a single step in a travel between Ogygia to Styx? What's the meaning of the flow of a stream between two rocks in the course of a huge river? What's the meaning of a single day in all of our life?
Jerk in the middle of the stablishment. A explosion of steam beyond this dust that strangles us. A look that tries to reach the horizon and can't rid from the white and overwhelmingly ceiling. A slipknot into the chest, embracing our lungs, trying to keep all the anguisly sources from our eyes in the middle of the throat. A song dancing with the moment drawing a honest and deep smile in our skin. A spontaneus and alone grin in the middle of the main street in these days that the clouds cover even the cheeks of the citizens. The disappearance of dizziness when i'm alone in the darkness only accompanied for the distant litany of the city lights, trying to cover the fears of the people in the middle of the night.
Surrounded by posibilities, we're forced to try or, if we don't want to decide, to die in life. Day by day. Every sunshine, another decision. Every spine belong to our vital spinal column that we draw in our imagination, dreams and fears. A day is only a day, but it can build, step by step, stream by stream, all of our life. Every rise in the east is a new oportunity to continue creating our arquitectonic masterpieces of existence.
Emptyness of vanity. Was only a night. Only an oportunity to still building all my way in this handmade railroad. Another chance to overcome my fears and to consolidate my dreams. The dizziness into the darkness disappeared, is only a step. The fire burning in front of my tent tells me that I need more experience, that is more days, more knowledge and more oportunities. Knowledge. You never knows the source of it. A book, a song, a hug, a wound, a landscape, a kiss, a punch, a call of your mother, a true coming from a inquisitive lips, blue eyes looking fixed at your face. You never knows. I was trying to stimulate the fire but the little sticks was so fast burned and I remember it: "Burn the grey moss" this novel from Thor Vilhjálmsson. I looked at my surroundings and started to search the grey moss, after twenty meters of walking and nervous breathing I founded it. And, with calm and carefully, I putted it into the fire. It worked. The grey moss started to burn and fedding with fire tongues the stick above it. My whoop echoed in all the slope and, maybe, in the streets of Reykjavík. Perhaps people heard it. Not was a drunken boy or a fear scream in the middle of a streat. Was the soul coming out of the throat of an alone boy trying to be himself building his way, step by step, stream by stream and day by day, into the wilderness.
Early Day Miners, "Light in August" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEDzUdU7u3s&list=QL
Beirut, "My wife, lost in the wild" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1m975PSevQ
