Raging Waters, Emerald Gaze She is the creator of the world she lived in, her every word the most concrete and defined element that turned the blurry and evanescent dimension of pure fiction and imagination in a reality she can touch with her hands, smell with her nose, taste with her mouth and see with her vigil emerald eyes, reflected and swallowed by the black swirling tides of the savage sea of a dying twilight. The raging waters wash away her worries and steal from her a devious smile she fails to see, her eyes shut to breathe the raging waves, and soon her voice follows the lilting sound of the sea, but it is her voice we do hear, not the sea. Not anymore. The waves stopped having any sound as soon as she started singing, the sea also existing only as part of her outward conscience. Her voice rose far beyond the genius of the blue surface, and reached without effort the highest heavens above, to claim silence from angels performing celestial songs, belonging solely to her deep imagination. She is the creator and destructor of the world she lives in. A falcon cries sadly from the skies, as if mirroring and objectifying with a sound the pain and loneliness inhabiting her soul, the one companion during her journey inside her very self. She the one true reality and source of every thought, object and landscape she lives in. The#moonleaning toward the blackish watery depths of oblivion is an impossible sight, made possible solely by the rare gift of an overactive fancy and precision of detail, even if a fictional one. A physical contact with a word-based reality might result overwhelming even for its very creator. Sometimes fiction become truth might be even better than what the mind suggested to our imagination. Her hand grazing the icy waters, she is startled by their velvet consistence and tiny whirlpools of echoing mermaid sounds, as emerging from hundreds seashells carelessly lost by clumsy sea-damsels in the bottom of the sea. Her every word gives birth to what she utters out loud, her piercing emerald sight fixes them in their place in her world forever. In a silent bow, every being called to #life would assume his place and role in her world, and obey to her laws and principles eversince. Releasing the last purple-and-silver butterfly that flies into freedom from the tip of her sapphire painted nail, through a wintry snowy sky, a white cold sun peering from the horizon, she stares satisfied at her creation, and smiles to herself shutting her eyes lowering her head. A mute salute or thanksgiving to an upper being than herself? Herself the creator of #life itself, what other being could ever outdo her in power and wisdom? The waves crushing around her in a very cinematographic effect with a salty flavour, conclude their salute to their creator, the sea now calm and tamed as ever, waiting for orders.
