Running, breathing, the soul of the mountain giving me strength, life inside it being so full, so strong, keeping me amazed, curious, always inspired. Pulling the head up, out of the broken body, only up and away, counting the spires, breathing in the cold. Breathing out. The snow has come.
Only once every year, in a rare moment of weather indecency, it snows. It is New Year, Christmas, and all other holidays at once. It is snowing in Montserrat!
The blue is incredible, it eats up everything else, it destroys the little remains there are of the fluffy, white stuff. Even the moon is curious, it also wants to check out this incredible feat, to participate in the party, to welcome the sister-white inspiration, the sugar-stardust covering the nude Goddess in a newly-embroidered wedding dress.
The needles-maids are all dressed up, every one of them with a proud white gorro, its own adornment, its own symbol worn for the dinner-party to be had at night, with Mr. Moon as the head guest.
Montserrat in snow, insanely beautiful, still green and welcoming. Still ready to open its door and share everything it has, leave one wonder its trails in peace, look up its needles in solemn awe, dream up a little dream or suffer in silence, letting a sigh blow with the wind. The scenery as the background, a still picture for a life passing by. Stand by and look. Sit down and paint. Run away and take a picture, lasting figment of imagination, disappearing memory of a snow that will come back, year after year, century after century. When we will be, when we will not. The mountain looks and sees, a runner, a pink jacket, reflected in its mirror of infinity, as nude and cold as the rock, bleeding water over and over, sending a river, a tickle, a stream, all the way to the sea. Al mar.
Time to forget, time to remember, time to smile, time to take a dive, down into the intestines, inside the mountain. Infinite time of simultaneous forgetting, instant remembering, circles and ellipses in the air, the total lightness of being.
And the road remains, calling forward, looking backwards. Frozen, immobile. Full of sunshine, full of cold. Alice, where should we go from here?
I Am Vertical
by Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.