I don't intend that there existed a pony capable of catching these words and understanding them immediately; in some way, that would be as surprising as incredible to me, the latter encapsulated in a tiny phosphorescent spark that I will carry inside me.
I went back to find out what happens every time my eyelids, rested, bring light to my eyes; it is a sensation as natural as it is beautiful, as attractive as it is representative of what I can consider the commotion of my thoughts.
Certainly, today I won't set a new world record or start a revolution; I won't jump from the highest mountain, perform a sacrifice that will go down in history, nor will I spend these hours changing my sense of reality. As usual, I'll dedicate these first few minutes to myself.
Regarding my morning: today I can see waterfalls that perfume my surroundings along with the crystal-clear water that slides between the rocks, the combination, fascinating and melancholic, reminds me of beach days and rainy nights; my pillows are still here, witnessing what I think; the book still rests and watches me in cozy silence; the breeze tells me something, then it quiets, then it extends and grows until it caresses the long violet curtains that hang and adorn the corners of what I call, and feel, my home. The flowers dance, their small stems caress the serene grass in a hug full of tenderness, adorned with love and embalmed by nature.
A moment ago I caught a picture of images that I allow myself to define as abstract, a set of evocative elements that caused me a strangely pleasant shudder; I remember the balloons, the music, the jumps, the laughter, the contrasting darkness and my family making compliments and euphoric praises, whose exact words have already been sunk deep in my memory, rooted in the shadows of the wasteland.
In other words, I forgot what I dreamed.
I often prefer actions to words, the latter are powerful and bring with them a greater, and sometimes unknown, effect of effectiveness. I have already asked myself the corresponding question and there has been progress; for now, I confess that I am attracted to the doubt that escapes my reason but that I know sins of immortality.
Here is the poem I wrote last night:
Oh, beloved environment that camouflages the invisible, not gnawed by soft caresses of memories, do not scream anymore, there are no reasons, time has stopped, and you can cry, cry, cry and shed the truth, the root of melancholy caresses you, you are free again, go out and color the stars.
The rocks of broken bones obey themselves and others and the night and the dawn and chaos and peace and white and black and fullness and hustle and noisy tears that you allow yourself to expel and the warm hugs you dream of giving and the exile you confessed to fear and the hunger you said you hated during our meeting and the fervent desires that the sky refused to fulfill and the hot eyes dressed in gray that during that stammering dawn witnessed the treasure you longed to protect.
Rocks; and the tenderness that does not die ignored.
Rocks; and the silence that gives the greatest of hugs.
Rocks; and the attention that envelops them.
Rocks; and the intention that glimpses the garden from the other side of individuality.
Rock; the figure that stands out and marvels at the clouds, the figure that swims in inner light and polishes the cane on which the world rests.
Beloved rock, who am I to touch your integrity? Who is the earthly pony that walks while you spit out what the world fears to say? And the intention repeats itself in a vortex that unites me with you, we both submit to the same, we both hear the tinkling of the earth under our silence.
When my sister visits, I will let her know that I'm more cheerful than usual.
I lift a hoof and think, hesitate, contemplate the sunlight that adorns the waters and the flowers thank me for being there. I make the bed, the sheets rise and flutter like joyful dancing birds, I hold the pillows with my teeth and arrange them, I take a few steps to observe the large gems buried in the sand; they watch me. I return my attention to the wind, allowing my mane to dive into the caresses.
After contemplating the art, I allow myself to sit and limit myself to breathing. My senses shut down, the musicality is born from its elegance, the cadence accompanies the scene while the sweetness of the petals, dazzling, shake in a slow movement that greets me from afar.
I couldn't be more satisfied with what I feel and perceive when trying to witness the future; I won't look begrudgingly at the events that approach nor will I scream if it's too late to conceive what I considered the best option.
I'm happy with that, the beauty of objects generates a vibe in my heart, I admit that the scenarios I witness cause in me a slight stupor drenched in joy, they embrace me. Anyway, the day is just beginning, I'll stay a few more minutes and then go for a walk, to stroll the streets I know and like, to attend to new topics in the interactions that surround me and that I'll find pleasant. And when Pinkie comes for lunch, I'll share these thoughts with her and receive in return a familiar laugh and the friendliness in those eyes that make me a believer in the good luck I had. I estimate that, as she usually does, one of the questions that will soon appear will be: "how did you sleep?"
I'll answer as I have always done, a phrase devoid of lies that, although not bathed in details, both of us can understand as the ideal answer that our individualities treasure: "I slept well".
