Memories of a not forgotten spring, long ago.
The humid smell of trimmed grass in the timid warmth of the sunny afternoon,
the joyful tweeting of the birds hidden amid the branches of the trees,
colourful blooming flowers rising in the flower beds.
The gateway closed in front of me and the empty courtyard of the house on the other side of the street struck me with unexpected violence.
This smell. This smell of once upon a time, when I was just whispering to the clouds to move away, to give room to the sun.
A child, dreamy-eyed facing the future.
All his dreams on the table, reality was hidden under a cap of morning dew, whose aroma was in his head and in his nose.
He was smiling, and dreaming, and wishing himself to be strong, while writing his thoughts on paper, stories of courageous heroes, wonderful landscapes and a battles to win.
He wanted to set out. He was smelling the sound of an upcoming summer, owning up to his proper feelings and the people he loved the most, and the burning love of him, denied and forgotten, closed in the safest box and threw to the bottom of the deepest ocean.
Thus, he was just loitering in the overseas dream, smelling the never ending fields of another land, far away from itself, far away from the people who could judge him.
And his voice was a guiding light, helping him to understand the language of his own wishes, his efforts to improve himself.
He used to write every night, alone, praying to have the strength to jump, to thrive.
He was taken aback by reality, but the sun still shines on the same fields, warming the same hopes, opening the same rugs in his soul.
There are still the same sounds, the same world outside, the same boundaries to cross.
While spring relentless comes, to make him live once again, toward a burning sunset, into a reflection, a mirror, dwelling in a happiness he still longs for.