Aires de Amarillo [Winds of Yellow] [Translated]

Good day, everyone.
In this threat I shall post in english everything I post in my personal blog (which is in spanish).

If you'd like to look at the originals, click here. (Again, beware; it's in spanish.)

Enjoy your stay.

I woke up today with the political flea. The Investment Session for the government is being an absolute circus, both yesterdays and todays. An opera buffa, as one would say, and it's proving the great chronic problem with Spain; it's cainitism.

But, what do I mean by cainitism? No, it's not something related to the World of Darkness, but the sensation of absolute rivalry between brothers, that fratricidal feeling between people of, if not equal ideas, similar ones. Much like Cain, who killed his brother Abel, the left, so little religious, is repeating this very same story. Pedro(1) shall deny it three times before the rooster sings, and in this case, will reject collaboration before the voting sings.

What do they think? That we're stupid or something! If the PSOE(2) earned such an absolute inflation of votes was because of the fear of the extreme right, the useful vote, a vote which came from the parties next to, and from, Unidos Podemos. And, after this, they expect to rise again, thing that in the long term shall result in new elections, because after all, the polls give them the advantage.

There will be a punish vote. There will be a returning vote. And, I fear then, it won't be enough for the left to govern. And who's at fault? The electoral cynicism of the PSOE.

(1) Pedro; Pedro Sanchez. Peter, much like Saint Peter.
(2) PSOE; Partido Socialista Obrero Español.

Click to expand...

When love sits on its highest point and along the primaveral breeze flows, it's when more pain arises. As the ancient sequoia, eternally protected by its deep crust, when it's chopped down without any sort of compassion, there isn't a single feeling for the loss of its life, but also for the loss of getting so high.

If the christian God exists, I have no doubt in saying that the most hearbreaking of breakups come directly from him, for the sin that affects even to the most humble monk, one of the capitals sins: Envy.

We are punished for being envyous, but, since the splinter comes from the stuck, God is envious aswell, and next to the never-ending divine pride and arrogance that ejects the imperfection of its holy and eternal being, if they saw any form of affection, any love that may overcome theirs, They would be the responsable for its end. Is it just? No, for it is not for the good of the human, but for their divine gloat, for they doesn't want a love to be bigger than what's supposed to be theirs.

Much like God punished the human being with idioms and division for the Babel Tower, for wanting to be higher than they, they forge a modus-operandi simmilar for anything that may grow bigger than them. And, if this would be true, cursed be their name!

From the four walls that compose my room, I could catch a glimpse of the distinguished figure of a sparrow.

Who could have said that now it's the bird who is free, and the human who is in the cage.

Nature doesn't care of economies or satellite countries, nor of ethnicities or nationalities, just as a sparrow doesn't care if it's a sparrow from Briviesca or from Pineda. Nature treats us all as equals, and here, between the walls of our home, we start to understand just how insignificant we are in a world, in a universem so infinite an empty.

And yet with all of this panic, everything will go away and it will be nothing much more than a story to tell, much like many times before. Nobody now remembers Aylan Kurdi, a syrian kid who died on the turkish shores fleeing another disease: War.

That great epidemic that poisons the human being, its countries and societies, and that does distinguish. The antithesis of nature, coming from the feeling of selfishness and envy. War. Death.

What happens now in Syria? Will the attacks stop for a quarantine in amnisty? A halt for fire much like the Christmas Truce between Germany and France in christmas of 1914?

Even if we lockdown ourselves in our homes, for our own health and for other's, there's still more world beyond the biologic and viral worlds, for we are humans and we like to make it all more complicated, and that's why we look away. Us first, the rest.. we'll see.

Who could be a sparrow to fly away, unchain itself from society as its stablished. It is true that nature is cruel, and still are dangers for the poor sparrows, but in times like this, perhaps simplicity is the solution for so many knots in the rope of history.

Fly, sparrow, fly. Fly, you who can, for I lack wings and disconnection. And bring me the exterior's news.

I've spent years confined in the solitude of my room, and I didn't need of any pandemic to make of this four walls my natural habitat, my world.

I went out. I let the sun and air caress my skin. I talked, laughed, cried. But I always went back to my four walls.

It's been a while since I last was alone, and, alas, deep in my heart and soul, I still am. I'm not anymore that weird kid that sat in either the first or last row of the class for anxiety to socialize, afraid to be looked at weird and to be badmouthed. I don't cry in recess, or lock myself in body and soul. But still I have that sentation of loneliness locked to my soul and thoughts.

I feel alone. I am not, but such is my feeling, like a cloud, a blindfold, a gag that won't allow me to scream for a much needed help while I slide painfully slow downwards to the dark precipice of the end.

First I took refuge in writing, edition, drawing, in creation of all things, but nothing seemed to be enough. I wasn't able to create enough to fill my void. I begun to feel like a barren soil, wasted, artificial and mechanic.

I am not what I once was, nor what I ought to be. But I do not feel like I am what I appear as. What am I?

And yet, I breathe.

I don't have much else to do but to breathe. Read, perhaps. Study, probably. But there is nothing more to do.

Inspire.

Expire.

I walk around the house with nostalgy, passing through the halls as if they were the magnificent Elysian Fields, or the modest Walk of the Promenade. I look through the window as Segismundo, debating whenever is life a dream, or a nightmare.

Inspire.

Expire.

I clean the house for those visits that won't come, I prepare plays that will never be played, and I feel the arrows that jam my mind tighten by the moment. And people will ask me how I am. And I shall answer: I'm still breathing.

Inspire.

Every story has a beginning. And there is no better one than the very beginning of everything.

A long time ago, before great empires arose and fell, thousands of dawns ago, when what we now call home was nothing more than a speck of dust in the mantle of the universe, there were two beings, named Vita and Morte.

Vita resembled an apparently feminine figure, with whirlwinds of a slow fire as hair, crimson silk as lips, infinite meadows like eyes and caramel for skin that was covered behind a loose dress of vines, leaves and petals. Her smile could warm the coldest of winters, with an elegance only seen by the stars on a clear summer night, and capable of a love only comparable to that of a mother.

Morte, on the other hand, wore a masculine appearance, albeit malnourished, skeletal, even starving. The night was her eyes, and the snow her skin. Like a stream flowing through its channel, like a machine that follows its code, together with the precision of a surgeon.

Where Vita rested her foot, green blades of grass sprouted from the barren ground, spreading wherever they could. From the grass, the bushes appeared. From the trees you kill, even the highest sequoia. And from the trees came fruits whose flavour could only be compared to ragweed.

Still, even the best of weeks contains storms. The energy that characterized Vita seemed to go away with each passing day. When he used to run around before, he started walking, reaching the point of needing Morte as a walking stick. And when he could no longer walk, he landed on a rock; and still, she was smiling.

Heart pounding, Morte sat next to her with a mask smile. Vita's eyes began to pale, what started as a simple white speck began to form small clouds in those fields without horizon, and Morte described her carefully and delicately what surrounded them.

Doubt began to invade Morte's mind about what was happening to Vita, and doubt allowed fear to enter. Fearful of what was appeasing his companion, he rose from where they alighted. Vita's bushy eyebrows tilted and came up with questions as she stopped noticing Morte's presence next to her, but she was comforted to notice the touch of his palm on her cheek, in which he swore and promised to find the solution.

And then, she felt the hand slide off her face, Morte pulling away from her. Her eyes were looking in the direction Morte had left, and she waited.

This was all a huge waste of time, wasn't it?

I won't delete any of the posts done before, but I won't be continuing to translate my blog anytime soon.

Cheers.