A luz dos dias

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The Days – Dewing
The days vary between the commodity of learning and the challenge of walking by. Life emanates power and it touches me with the colors of winter. I don’t know how many birds I’ve seen dancing for me – just to attract me. I don’t know how many questions have been asked. I don’t count things; I’d rather feel them. I don’t how many pictures I wanted to take. Perhaps, if you were here with me, I wouldn’t be here typing, struggling with words, thinking, waiting. Thinking again. With words. Embellishing this white and vain page.
Perhaps is a dream of the impossible. Perhaps doesn’t exist and just the days are magic – they’re made of thin purple and peach colored air. Days, the ones I hold with essence, blood, violence, laughs, touches, smiles, words, they smell like fall. Those days are untouched, painted red winter, with brushstrokes that are new, serene, kissable, dream like.

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