La mariposa volotea
Y arde – con el sol – a veces (Neruda)
The crane had always been there and she had seen it (or just known that it was there) every single day, going to work. But she had never seen it in the mist. The crane’s arm, as a hand detached from any will, was turning blindly trying to catch an invisible object, who knows where, and finally it got it and took it in an abnormal balance suspended in the middle of that grey emptiness.
Luckily her mind was too packed of Facebook and laziness to see in that black weight floating over her head the unavoidable omen of all days of mist.
But when she sat on the bus packed of sleepy teenagers full of hormones and lazy cough, she felt altogether that weight inside her, all around her, vacillating over all their heads.
All the sticky expectations, the illusions, the dreams, the feelings, the loves they still believe in were about to fall down with a huge boom, crashing on the ground. In a matter of years, months, maybe even days or hours, they would have struggled to find again that bit of faith they were wasting all around.
In that moment, when their choral annoying coughing reminded her of all the bacteria and unawareness, she felt sorry for them, and jealous, an old, the black weight already crashed on her grounds so many times.
And every time the crane’s hand had striven in the emptiness to find another illusion, trying to be strong enough to raise the black weight up again.
Her illusions and expectations and dreams and loves had always been like day-flies. Burning before the sun could disappear behind the horizon, making the crepuscule darker than the night itself.
Until the next time, until the next time…