Journey to the dragon's lair and the dove's nest.
I closed my eyes to start the flight, silenced the barking of the dogs and the whistles and covered myself from the cold with the mysterious power of the aroma of the flowers. I stopped the course of the rivers and the wind stopped pushing the clouds. Furthermore, I stealthily entered the tissues, the blood and the lymph with that dexterity with which thieves steal.
I did not stop to judge the neuronal flows or currents, nor did I even observe the endorphins, or the discharges of the brain. In the depths of my soul I found nothingness, empty spaces, darkness and cosmic silence.
Then I discovered the dragon's lair and the dove's nest. The camouflaged loneliness of your absence hurts the dragon, the noise that other steps make in your life bothers him, jealousy irritates him, and he is sad not to possess you as if you were a trophy. The dragon wallows in its mystical belief that you are an alien being, that you seem far away when you are near.
He needs commitments and promises, he requires that you perform a puppet show, that you come every night with a stradivarius to pray a Bach piece in my ear. He feeds on problems and supplants me when I cry like a child because I can't touch your skin, nor sleep breathing in the mysterious smell of your neck. It breathes fire through its jaws when you talk to another, when you tap your heels in the street and move your hips, when you laugh with a third party and declare at the top of your voice that you are defending your right to give a little more love to the lemon trees, to those tiny shells from the beach where you surrender.
The dove also lives there: shedding light on the flowers, on the wheat fields and the facades of the buildings on my street. Eternal and alert, impassive before the passage of time as if it were a caravan of soldiers, sheltered by the mystical bag of faith in the love we have for each other.