The Wounds that Heal

It was the perfect scenery. It was the highest order of the waters; yet it was still and dying. The sunset was cool in all its probable shades and the boats were dancing gently. I witnessed it in pain of constraints, the filth of the room building all over my being. The glasses mistreated my pleasure and I couldn't find my memory. So I cut my hair.

I disengaged myself from this old setting. I swam to the other side of the swamp and saw chickens running away sensing my existence. I did not grew weary and I wandered. It was then that I saw the luscious greens and a tree, stricking with its incompetent heigh and nonetheless powerful presence. I did not dare touch it.

As I walked around the remains, behind all the I have seen was a broken molded wall. I sighted inside a beautiful garden of flowers and it was filled with flying bees above. There was a bridge on the left side of it, grassed and wealthy, as if seducing my will to cross and get inside the old house.

I tried crossing the garden, but the bees attacked me. They did not sting, however, they tried passing through my solid body unsuccessfully. I felt their push on the side that I could not see. It was unfortunate that I did not have the chance to see the old house.