Buenos Días, Sr. Courbet !
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Round and round goes the clock, along with the seconds align only a few selected. Those gather themselves, only connected by words. Not even sentences. Maybe memories, let loose by the sound and gesture that only a meaningful word can have. Those words are the ones that are filled with the air of a new race; a new sign that has not lost itself in the passing time; infounded with a whole world inside.
Now the lines that compound a letter become expression. Capable of having a duality imprinted: in time and timeless, material and ideal, shallow and deep...destined for oblivion.
Those few that can traspass the significance, not ancient, but born anew from within thier soul; and Those can communicate, learn about life from its roots and be inspired by what the future awaits, hidden in the mist of time. Then time, as we knew it, becomes the past, the present and the future. Those are the ones that can only enjoy the simultaneous act of language.
Those do not need to hold on to the structure, thus being able to express beyond any reason; because reason and feeling have become one, and a creation of man, such as words, cannot hold these boundless spheres. Full of a mind incapable of speaking according to the needs of social orders, Those shine in the middle of the rest. They shout only a blubber of words, or maybe even one or two, and can let out a universe of meaning. That much a stumbled voice can create with its vocal chords. Only a sound you can hear. Thus, Those can be the only ones amazed by every gasp of breath, and every Time that becomes a timeless String.
Entre locos se entienden. O, por lo menos, se ven sus mundos interiores. Locos, gracias por existir en mi vida!
Por eso Courbet, estoy más que segura, pensaba en cómo sacar a esos ángeles de su cabeza para no pintarlos.
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