Source of life

When I was a child, I have seen the world in a different way, from a different angle and with different risks of seeing it. Sometimes seeing is great but most of the times it causes pain and suffering. When I was a child, every Sunday I climbed that mountain at my grandfather's farm, at that piece of paradise, built by himself with his own hands and the benefit of justice and perseverance. Those mountains are covered with green and gold pastures all year long, and the red sand sometimes showing its scales resembling a living dragon beneath being claimed by the rain due its right to flatten it down.

In this place, the water connected the low lands with the base of the mountain and the trees were holding the cliffs from falling over, hanging with their lives to the harsh terrain. Sometimes a thunderbolt would hit one of those fellows, cutting it abruptly by the middle while the strong shower would celebrate the race to defeat the heights of that peak who held a monumental black stone.
I always saw a face over there, and always saw a cave below. The vegetation was so dense by then that the real image was elusive to my young eyes and my fear when facing the idea to go there often overtook me to feel it going down to my legs.

A white big bird used to live there, with its naked neck and ample wings. That stone was its domains of fear I always thought. Meanwhile, I had my own domain. A high peak just at the other side from these creepy domains from where I could see the horror and its eye defying me to go there but there was something else.

As the storms were swirling back at the horizon in front of the orange sun and its crown, and the cold breeze full of tiny drops of water as its muses bringing the scents of the oranges and all the guavas with their wet and fresh skin down from my granpa's house, climbing the hills inviting me to come down for them and escape the rain. I was perpetually mixing everything brewing thoughts that I could never have had before and like not needing anything else my body would rather fly and fuse with the winds and the sky and the bolts and the water and the marsh plenty of life and worms and snakes and frogs and leeches and turtles and birds and fishes and the grass and the earth and the sky. And then I always knew I was ready to die. I would never feel fear anymore and I would fly through these passages not to seek for enlightment or wisdom or power or pleasure, but only because that was home, and I was there to go back home, to go back to the elements and be part of life.

Under the sunlight, very burnt by its light and starving from morning to evening, the yelling of my desperate father would come in intervals with the wind to remind me that my body needed some food. As part of my respect for him I would abandon the heights and the thoughts and the flights through the caves and the dreams and the lights and the frogs and the lizards and snakes to go back with my family but those tiny little creatures there were still cricketing for my presence all night long.

And the mysteries of the cave most surely were revealed during the night while the great white bird would fly over and release the souls of its preys imprisoned and devoured inside of the cave. Lights were seen during the night and strange shapes were obvious over some stones who changed places every time. The clouds would visit my post and rinse it to make it clean for the next day, and the stars would fall in tiny slow pieces burning the ground letting a melted scar of sweet crystals that I would eat every day after lunch. Gnomes and their footsteps and their utensils sometimes were left around when they heard us coming and iguanas would stop talking and pretending not to understand a word just to keep us naive. And early in the morning I was there again wondering how to go back to the beginning of time, to go back home. And I keep looking.