The hour when we can start again
The hour which is often postponed, the secret hour in which we retreat into our world and sigh, thinking of the thoughtless. A cloud in the sky of life, a storm in the sky of the day, a sadness without just cause, an hour in which we have the right and even need to complain ourselves. Wounded in our vanity, hurted in love, abandoned. The time when we no longer have the strength to even ask "why." The hour when we seem to want no one to tell us that everything will be fine, just so they will not steal our right to "lick" our wounds. Girls or boys, women or men, young or beautiful horses with many memories - who could honestly prove that he was not at least once seized with fear, despair, abandoned by the warm arms of destiny and harassed by the cold hands of abandonment? Who could admit nonchalantly that his happiness has never eaten a sister's beating with death since depression? Who could utter the poetry of his happiness without tangling at least once, without swallowing hard, to say it with all his chest, convincing everyone that he had never desperately looked for a lapel to wipe? face wet with all the injustices and upsets melted on the cheek ... That it is love, love for an hour or a lifetime, that it is from work, from unrewarded gestures, misunderstood pains, secrets that smolder like a volcano, that it is the expectation behind which nothing comes, the door that never opens, the window that always shows us the same tree ... All are given to us and we all live them, no matter who we are and how long we are here, under the curtain of life called heaven. Sometimes we look at our watches and wait for the Blue Hour, just to unload ourselves and through this, from the bottom of the abyss, to realize that this is point where we can start climbing again.