Frames...

Dust off....pick the old, heavy book and open it....The paper butterfly falls in front of your feet...You raise the right hand with the book on it, and easily lean forward to pick it up with your left hand...The book slips from your hand and falls on the dusty, wooden floor, making a strange, squeezed noise...With your finger tips, you touch the wings of the butterfly...Unequal...Wrong..."I couldn't make even a good paper-butterfly...Damn"...You put it in your fist and break it....You throw it away in the corner of the old attic...letting your head fall in your palms, holding back from crying, you sit on the floor..."This was so wrong...."

The first contact of the skin with the sea must be perfect...I get closer and closer...with small steps, eyes closed, just hearing the waves and feeling the sand under my feet, smelling the wind...I feel the first drop of water...I go further...Soon, I start going down...I lay back and watch the stars, trying to trace lines between them, make connections, reinvent the Universe. I am drawing maps and I am trying to reach you, but apparently, however I would make the combination, there is no way to go back .... I left the paper butterfly in an old book in the dusty attic....I know that one day you will find it....

You stand up, look around and start descending the stairs...I start swimming....As you get further away from the house, I swim further away from the shore. The Sun is starting to send spots of light, calling me back to the shore...The moon is up on your sky...you lay back in your big and empty bad...I step on the sand again..."If there is no more of you, there can't be anymore of me..."
"All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible" - T.E. Lawrence