Short reflections

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This is a collection of short stories I am writing daily, about different stuff that I feel inside and want to express.

Poetry / Fantasy
Xavier Liras
Age Rating:

Reflections (1)

Night and day

Nights are a blessing. I always feel more calm, relaxed, empowered and faithful. I also feel more creative. I am kind of covered by the blanket of darkness, which saves me from the judgmental Sun that uncovers all my fears and insecurities. In darkness everything is a mystery, fantasy, creativity, chaos. I like the night. It’s the time of dark forests, monsters, stories, hidden taverns, old reunited friends. And lovers. The womb and the tomb. The beginning and the end.

But, deep down, I miss the Sun.

I want to drink the Light and float on the river of life. And see the blue sky over the green branches and jumping insects and singing birds. I crave life, silence, distant laughter. Midday dances in Midsummer. Wine and terraces. Giggling and wind bells. Children playing on the banks of the river. Memories of distant summers that are present in every heart that hasn’t forgotten the Wonder of childhood. Nothing to hide, nothing to judge. Just the Sun discovering our bodies, naked, exposed.

One distant Summer

She appeared out of nowhere. Her skirt flying all over the place, like leaves floating.

She was there, standing over the stairs leading to the upper hills of the city. Those hills that he remembered from his childhood, or from another life. Yes, he remembered white houses hanging over cliffs. And that girl holding his hand, smiling.

What was she saying to him?

Looking through the window. Outside, the blue sky, but nobody was now over the stairs. And the hills were not from that city.

Where had he seen that girl? Had he gotten asleep?

Later that day, he took his little boat and let it drift through the river. He looked through the jumping insects, through the leaves and beyond the blue Summer sky. Then, he remembered another summer, another world, another universe.

Or should I say one rainy, summer day, in a little Irish village?

It had started raining, and we were running towards the hideout, laughing, surprised, drenched. Suddenly, I remembered I got an umbrella on my bag. More laughing. “Idiot!” - she screamed, with tears in her eyes. And, at that moment, I felt her hand over mine. Both holding the umbrella.

And the world stopped under our feet, over our heads. And this memory got stuck in our hands. I still feel it. And this hand was not only a hand: it was the whole world, a whole life at the brim of a sigh. I sighed. She might have, too. How would be the world if, at that moment, I had looked at her eyes. I knew what kind of eyes they were. What kind of future they held.

I wonder if there exists a world where those eyes met. And I wonder why it still matters, after all these years.

Moving Sand

Emotions are like moving sand. You are in the wonderful forest and, suddenly, whenever you less expect it, it sucks you in. And now you are in a desert. No oasis in sight. I always think I’m behind, way behind. And I look up and I only see one Sun. The Sun burns even the brightest star. Perhaps somebody else is looking at me in the same way and thinks I’m a star. But we are all walking over moving sand.

The lost children

Today I walk through those ruins that were our future. Those ruins of what it was meant to be, and now, suddenly, it’s all forgotten under stones that look older than the Moon and the Sun. How is it possible that now the future looks so old, so ancient, so distant? What is this paradox, this impossibility? Perhaps we both met over those ruins and tried to build a cozy cabin over them. Yes, I remember those times. We were so happy. Near that lake. At that time, we were walking barefoot, over the green grass that covered ruins we couldn’t see.

Who was to blame? Nobody. We just met there, playing like two lost children that only wanted a warm hug beside the fireplace.

Smoke and mirrors

We are all lost, I suppose. Cold arms that burn and leave us alone, lying, suffocating under the darkness. What are we looking for? Today I was walking along that stream. The running stream of my childhood. Grass, birds and fairies.

Adventure and heroes.

I sat down and, for a few seconds, there was nothing to expect, nothing to fear. I was there again, caressing the grass, that same grass we ran over, that warm summer, until we fell on the ground, laughing, together. That summer when we were still holding hands, not because we were supposed to, but because we couldn’t help running without each other. Side by side.

Smoke and mirrors.

The same old dream, chasing a shadow of an ideal. The girl. The soul. The Holy Grail. The eternal quest for adventure, the eternal call for romance and battles for freedom, and heroism. Standing the ground is much easier, when you fight for that treasure that breathes sunlight under the stars.

The wind and the oak

Coming back to the old oak, the Sacred Oak whose roots come down to the Source. I looked up and the branches touched the stars with leafy fingers. And the stars started floating and playing with the fireflies. I sat along the river of memories.

I touched this water with my finger tips: the current that changes forever, the current of false beliefs. The flow of creation, constrained by the river banks.

I am not a river, nor am I a spring. I create my Reality. I create my world. And I flow wherever I want to. Far away, beyond any known words, I will wander and wander, like the wind through wheat fields. And I will go where I want to go, unconstrained, unbend.

The path of heroes

You didn’t want the full pain, the full consequences of what you did. You wanted the rejection, but you didn’t want what happens after it. You came to me, expecting me to be on my knees, to plead, to ask for forgiveness, to beg for a comeback.

But I was standing there, firm.

Just standing my ground.

Now you have to own your Goodbye.

You stumbled upon a new Pride that was born from the roots of this Old Oak of Forgiveness. And grateful and blessed I looked at you today, from this love, from this acceptance. And you couldn’t stand it. You fell, you cried in disbelief. “I wanted you humiliated, defeated, finished - Why are you so powerful, why are you suddenly so strong?!“.

I am not the Xavi you used to know. I can’t be that person anymore. And now, you must look into yourself and, if you are brave enough, walk the path of heroes, or fall into the abyss of self-pity and despair. And this time I am not waiting for you.

I am walking my path of heroes, no looking back.

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