From there I can see the fig trees that stretch along the central avenue, it is strong, it can rain, and for a few moments it seems to me that these trees with enormous roots are going to be carried away like feathers by the brutality of the Wind, which, heavy and deep, go against everything we know about fig trees.
They dance, they bend over, they threaten, but no, they don’t leave. They have been there for centuries, planting, shading, feeding on flakes of light, being for what they were born for. So we too continue, threatening to take steps that we do not take, that extend to our dreams, but not enough to understand them.
- So we’re.
- So many times.
- Not moving.
- What’s stopping us?Is it the depth of our roots or the erasure of our fears?The loves we have accepted; work that pays the bills but makes the chest sick; not so many friends whose malice we learn to tolerate; everything we get used to becomes our voluntary prison.
And the fig trees follow the changes of season, pretending to be others, pretending to be different, planted on the central floor, so we were created to be the shadow of other people’s dreams, the world is here, whispering softly.
Go against everything you know about yourself, close your own threats and go. Unlike fig trees, our roots are planted in the land of our hearts, but our steps are free, dangerously free. I like to think that if they didn’t know they were fig trees, the central bed would now be empty, everything is loose.