The wait is an illusion (I thought that in the wait time stopped, what a stupid. And instead life continues to flow, and we with it, even when we do not realize it we are living. Even if in a different way. We are elaborating, learning and growing every moment every second.)
My eyes stopped looking at the void and placed themselves on a dark feather that protruded from the bird's plumage. It was not a feather like the others, but a single, perfect brushstroke of a blue so deep that they seem the darkness of the sea. In that little detail I saw everything. Each feather was an engraved memory. The blue feathers spoke of past skies, the darker ones of dark nights, and that intense blue feather .... a secret. I was not stopped out of fear. I was not waiting for the future, but I was understanding the past. My red hair was not impatience, but my lighthouse.
