Two shy hands, thirsty for love, tentatively and unsteadily grasp the white mug with blue flowers, and the lips rush, but secretly, to the aroma of the coffee thread that seems to want to draw my destiny. Beyond the unknown veil of tomorrow, I turn with my heart to the fullness of the moment.
With my senses activated by the first sip, my eyelids fall in a floating rhythm over the roof of my flushed cheeks, thinking about everything and nothing. I let my eyes, still wrinkled from sleep, exist in another, parallel world, where the only alarm is the brightness of the summer mornings and the joyful song of the mountain birds. The noise of the city turns to music, the buildings turn to the forest, the people turn to the poets of the world, and the love of my hands embraces the earth and the sky alike.
"It's good to dream," I often tell myself. I look for my inspiration in everything, seen-unseen. Sometimes it's where I'm looking for it, sometimes it's where I'm not looking. Fortunately, most of the time, she comes to me alone and finds me dreaming the same dream - a dream of green and blue, with clear air and the earth beneath my feet welcoming and loving.
I've been dreaming of a world between these two colors for as long as I can remember. Maybe because I was born in June, a month when the green is greener from the summer rain, and the blue of the sky is bluer when the warm sun dries the raindrops. I run, as often as I gain the confidence of time, to this dream, and, blessed as I am, wherever I turn, I find it manifested in the most wonderful forms and shades. I burden myself with his image for an eternity, and when eternity seems commensurable, I return to him and am again, breathe again, love again. I wish the thread would never break - neither the coffee thread nor the dream thread.
You would say that dreams live where no human foot steps, but maybe you haven't walked enough. Why should we build this fate for the dream? Fate to exist only when we want to escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. What injustice!
How many times have you found yourself contemplating your dreams, and at the slightest shake of your mind, found yourself in an avalanche of confusion, anguish and despair? Like when, maybe, you're in a place where you don't want to be anymore, or your work is no longer about passion and pleasure, but about compromise. How can you believe, now, that dreams are unattainable? They are there because you see them. How to believe that what you see is impossible? How to feel that your most alive aspirations are far from you, when they actually exist in the only place where only you exist?
It's good to dream. That way, maybe, you remember yourself more often. And in doing so, you remember that your story is still being written and that the pen you hold between your fingers scribbles as you dictate. Sounds idyllic, I know. How else do you think I managed to turn the noise of the city into music, the buildings into the forest, and the people into poets? Dream as you know best, I will continue to dream as I learn every day. This is not a story about fantasy and friendly illusions. It's a story about how we always come back to ourselves when we strip our minds and souls of imaginary fences. It's a story of discovery and becoming, to which we all cling - some more determined than others.
I wish the thread would never break.
Not even coffee.
Not even the dream.
Contemplative by definition, Ralu is a lover of expressing her senses through words and an avid explorer of music. She lives with her mind and soul in a universe of creativity, where her natural sensitivity gives her the joy of being aware of and celebrating the small things in life, such as "the first light bulb in her first house" (let there be light!). He finds poetry in people and the world around him, and every patch of nature he encounters is an endless source of peace and happiness.