Where is my mind?

 

I wanted to have wings. That was my greatest dream. I knew how to fly, I had flown before, I remembered the sensation, and after that, it had never left me.

The manifestation of the dream of wings took time, delayed, secularized, marched on, until April came and, I who was born in it, who am reborn in all of them, found myself opening those velvety shadows of other experiences, of exuberant colors, dancing with sparks of fire embedded in my memory, obeying in movement my impulses as an experimenter, at first slowly and slowly, then in short bursts, with strokes that tried to accompany desires that were dormant within me, I streaked the air, risked the leap and flew to the ledge of the small window. I admired the interior that had become dark and tried to memorize the streaks of light that the window allowed me to glimpse. Before, they were just streaks, streaks of warmth that entered, as if blushing, now, my eyes turned outside and I saw two palm trees lined up in the direction of my gaze. I also saw flowers, many, and taller poles that almost dared to tear through the clouds. I opened my wings again and did not delay in the exercise of testing them horizontally, flapping, rising, lifting to a higher point, until I looked down and felt my body completely surrendered to that dance I had longed for so much. Dots of green and strong lavender, fragments of dark blue and daisies on the top of the hill. Everything I felt now could be related to and, perhaps, even confused with what I remembered before, the longing to know what it was to be happy. Being happy was suspended inside my chest, carried out, in practice, by two winged wings that left me dizzy, but drunk with joy.

When I woke up, I tried to stretch my flapping appendages horizontally, but the feeling of nausea became so strong that I looked around. The smell of blood, characteristic and strong, took over the place and I saw no hills or rugs of uneven grass, no blue sky, no traces of planes drawn on it. When I rubbed my eyes, I had two hands again, with white fingers, dry skin, the velvet feathers had been replaced by thick, short hair and my lower limbs and muscles ached. The mattress, the chamber pot, the torn sheet and the window grate hit me with reality. I was trapped in that pigsty, surrounded by metal and graffiti on the walls, there was evidence of the lack of freedom, carved into the irregularity, by nails and the edges of metal plates. The smell of blood mixed with lead. There was an old, completely irregular and obsolete washbasin in the strangeness of those meters. I was alone and the silence spoke to me, if I listened, telling me that life was made up of absurd moments that interspersed the ray of lucidity. That madness rode the minds, but above all the collective unconsciousness and that we were millennia-old fragments of all that preceded us. We functioned, perhaps, as sacralized appendages, maintaining the operation of constancy in the most varied ways. Freedom was a dream. That could only materialize its concrete forms through a mind-spirit union that translated the clear common intentions. Telepathy offered this condition, that of transparency. It is, then, we and not I, who have the common dream of independence, of the defense of human rights, of constancy in appeals, of the effectiveness of peaceful attitudes, of the possible proof and demonstration of the same, through arguments impossible to nullify or redound to the half dozen minds that did not agree with the common dream. That, of experiencing humanity, in the most harmonious way possible. Our illustrious predecessors left codes and symbols, messages to be interpreted, messages that would produce the results that we would all invariably have access to, once we had achieved the strategic plans of the divine and supreme mind.

The flight was individual until the union and reunion. Light was made again. Not artificial, but from another source, the original. Freedom was a way of living, a choice associated with the deconstruction of learned patterns, of the carousel of the self, and that innermost part that the mind can access, when it is not held hostage by conditions or social impositions, was a sine qua non condition to reach the totality and truth of the question that finds its answer at the exit of the labyrinth:

- What is the basis of life?

To fulfill oneself. In essence. To live. To sow and to reap.

And I remembered Liza. In the question asked to her mother, shortly before she said goodbye for a final flight:

- What is your idea of ​​the afterlife? And to which she responded, bizarrely, in her daughter's opinion, at that moment when she threw out the words (as if she were repudiating them, a mistake we prefer, of the illusory world that coexists at all times in matter) - It is none of my business!

It could be that he simply wanted to say: - Why do I have to know this? Or, I don't want to know! In truth, the mind refuses to acknowledge it, because it knows it is moving in invisible ways, to which the human domain has no access, except through meditation and the like. Matter is the domain of matter, hence time. In the afterlife, in essence, this time-space does not include questions, not even answers. Living in the now is implicit to those who are close to leaving, enjoying the materiality they have proposed. Objectively, now it is called living. Most of us who suffer from mental imprisonment do not actually live, they survive the effects of materiality. I wanted to fly. To live. To expand my wings and mind. And I realized, once again, that the bars were the opportunity to realize that I was free. What did I care about the choices of society? What matters is my choice and it had been made. The flight. When I picked up the handkerchief, I still had hands, with fingers, but when I sat on the window ledge, I already had claws, feathers and a beak. I was a falcon. And I preferred to exercise my choice of flight and, happily, I detached myself from the human form.