We stayed away but we were close. We were here.

In the last month I  loved, slept, took care, drew, dreamed, dried up, covered, breathed, gazed, heard.

Flowers, trees, air, nightingales, butterflies, veils and clouds.

Here's a little preview of a new bw series. 

This is my late-valentine for my lad.
About letters and butterflies.
I hope you shared this day with the one that you really love.

THE GIRL WHO BECAME WOOD

As an innocent little lady my grandmother often told me one of those stories that, for a child so small, they were sad and mournful. No big bad wolves, no happy endings. Only legends with a sad truth in it.

 It was a different kind of creature; white, pale, with a glance indescribably deep. It was a figure almost evanescent. His guardian took care of her, but every time they went for long walks in the Old Forest, the girl wept. This wood seemed endless stretch over several floors and the trees, once lush and radiant, appeared dismembered and suffering. The burned logs of the Old Forest told of past centuries and wars never won. Of intimacy and suicides. That creature could hear all of this and suffered with the forest, talking and listening to her.
I remember it was a winter day that the call became more and more sharp and insistent, that day when the sun and moon appeared as single on his face. Her sorrow showed as an ordeal: her  transformation in the form of agony. Small leaves began to sprout from her back, harass between her tender strips of flesh. Long stems were prolonged by her thin arms, shaking and scratching and stabbing her white thin skin with spurs. Streams of blood distillated from the torn body, hungrily absorbed from the barren earth. Now only a figure gazed the macabre, stunning show.

"You can protect someone from something, but no one can protect her from herself."

The love of the world was focused on a single, bleak look. In an immortal embrace of pain. The worst goodbye and the sublime one. The memory of her extinct eye was fixed in his mind as the ultimate sweet memory. Suddenly all around burst of flowers and perfumes ever created.

So Goodbye graceful lady.

Become a Forest.

 

We just let go eachother and now we are trying to awaken ourselves from the coma.

Dreams never end. Often they come to see me

but

tomorrow will be an unusual day.

They will be here with me and I will keep them tight.

For them, the night seems much longer than our nights and we wait patiently and we champ at the bit stressed to see the day.

We are just tender patch of flesh, bones and fears. More than ever.

Your influence on me is oppressive.

I am here. We are here.

The light seeps through the great white window and the time goes slowly.

And we keep on waiting the day.

Bones are breaking

and
You can see the the rifts disseminating in the mirror

But in this city there is too much fog for living. And your skin smells lovely like Camelia.
Is you coffee warm enough?
                                                  - No, I just want to rest.

And your eyes are red. And your face is pale.

And yet I didn't recollect faded photographs.

                                             You have a magnificent iris when you don't gaze.
And I am just flesh.

All around her room, while she's in deep agony.
There are some creatures that fly upon her body.
They seem like dancing while the air passes through their fleeble wings, letting them glide.
They flop down chaotically and in transport they hit her, they cover her eyes with their huge misshaped wings.
They grasp, envelop and choke her. It's an undefined, convulsive, crippling huddle.

It's daytime.                                                           It's night time.                                                           It's distortion.

It's now, It's after.

It's a nightmare, an endless nightmare.

AUDERE TRIBOLACIO

December, 26 MMXII

 from Unfinished story.

"Departed, chocked to death."

Ancients tell that flowers hide thousand secrets, many ways of speaking.
On a not so dark twilight she came again to the cemetery. This time that front of souls was in tribulation: a new arrival shattered their rest.
A faint and sensitive maiden came there, waiting for the Great Substance, so that she could reach the abyssal trifle.
This shining beautiful creature laid motionless, crystallized in the fog.
But as days pass by nobody appeared to pick her up.
Soon her rose-coloured fairness changed in a vague and pallid figure of what she was.
At the time, the Sensitivity showed up.

She was the black-dressed lady, forced to stroll forever in that lawn of death.
She carried a pure white flower. This flower was a little donation from the not-being for the endless beauty.
From that time the maiden lingers there as the given flourishing flower.

But she still waits, in this dream.

This is a story of a gaunt maiden so pallid and fragile that she couldn't go out.
The only way to connect herself with our world was a tiny oval window that overlooked upon a little wood.
This poor lady often sat in front of this glimmer of life and she described what she saw through this window on a small shred of paper .

But day by day her sorrow grew so that she was not be able to define the beauty of that sight anymore.
Her words became even more harsh, little pieces of her heart turned in ink and all her affliction and sadness won the day.
Everything which her body expressed was nothing more than the mirror of her grief.

And so her agony started, on a cold winter morning.

Wide wounds made their own way on her little fleeble pinched body; soon black and blue marks swallowed her face.
Tiny cuts appeared under her little hands.
Her wrinkled lips turned in a sick blue.
Her blood stopped flowing through the green veins of her narrow wrists.
Her gaze, gloomy and vitreous, kept on staring that wood full of vitality.
That flowered-dressed creature had the death on her heart.

When she weeps for what it has been lived, there is no God from the Netherworld who comes to comfort her.

When she tosses out and hit against the walls of her conscience, nothing comes out. A dark quiet and obscure and sweet.

Flowers withered by then spring back again from her eyes. To give birth to death, to create death from life.

And she lingers there, silent. 

She clings to them and she feels them like her children.

She breathes them and she feels like her mother.

Suddenly she leaves them, she eclipses and lets them spring, because her presence makes them fade.

[unfinished story]

This is a particular story.
This is a story of a girl, who felt the solitude of the deads. She often went to the cemetery just to talk with them, read stories or singing.
And often the dead ones were lighten up. She felt it and she knew it.

She found these gravestones so close to her.
Her white-browed image was the same colour as the stones.
Crests and tales were written on the statues, and she loved so much touching them, listening to them, taking part in that silent feast.

She was that burial place. Cold and marble.
But empty.

Dead, yet kept alive by a weak lip of flesh, a vague spun of bones.
And dreams.

Departed, chocked to death.

LATE AFTERNOON

Lovely afternoon with my Dear M.