the veil

there is a saying in what passes and it is not said. There is a variation of the music in your eyes. A quiet not ever humble, but awaiting thought of the potential closeness in a little corner, of a distant universe, of our minds. When our minds collapse, when our thoughts make up for words unspoken, when the symphony of business vocals, of ambition and laughter is wrapped in a veil to see, to keep, to guard inside. A veil that hides nothing else but closeness. 

Dancing in the snow

List of things that pass bye: A mirror in the snow, a smile that says i know you, a good conversation, the quiet remembering of a possible limited future, if you dare, if I dare. If you want, if. Some ifs are complicated. Some ifs come with much more than just a dare. Some ifs make my heart run faster, my dreams become blue and white and a bit of snow. It is in the snow where our dreams may have met, or may not ever do. It is what it is. Without not being the ifs of the story. And the ifs have always a beginning and an end. In the middle only emotion. That some of us claim not to possess. So let's dance in the snow, emotion (less).

las hermanas

 Vamonos chicos

Vamonos a ver la playa del sonriso 

La emotion del rayo del sol de la manana 

La vaga impression del maturidad de las hermanas 

Que hasta las sesenta anos van a ver las ninas del pasado 

Las ninas de ayer.

El amor que nunca se acaba. 

El amor del alma, de sangre. De ninez. 

 

the women inside

 The women inside the mother

The business woman

The child woman 

The woman that knows it all 

The vulnerable one 

The one that stick for her friends 

The one that hides from the world 

The one that kids smile to 

The scholar one 

The failure. 

The wife 

the mother of 2 

 

uncertain

 eyes that talk more than words.

clarity of kindred spirits.
temptations from the past.
kindness. laughter. a piece of the sun in your right eye. uncertainty.

Alternatives

Alternative universe flavors with spicy ques of unbreakable spirits and piles of chips for the breakeable rules of the past.

Sweet aftertaste with a pinch of grounded determination, folowing the movement of the sun in the summer.

The gray ranced taste of truth.
The little parts of joy that will always be sparkly and purple; smarald green and royal blue. Always linked with faith or hope. My choice. 

Mother and Daughter

I am the daughter of the SUN, the line in the horizon when flying to Taiwan. The grafitti mark on the bridge between space and time. 

I am the daughter of the Past. Where songs seem sweeter, and food eaten is always there one taste bud in the memory node. 

I am the mother of tomorrow. TODAY.