The heaving sea. Strong waves. Whisperings upon the shore. Time broken into vivid yellow shafts. The cult of speed envelops itself in the deepest threads of a free fall. Among walls, ashes, and a turbulent sky, the floods of gazes are drawn into tides of endless uncertainty. A vanished existence fronts the clock-worship. A vanished existence becomes so thick that breathing is not as smooth as it once was. Hollow, bellowing sensations lie upon the chest, again and again. Countless armies of rapidity stop the wind’s freedom. The flowers, the grass, the scenery of peace—even time shows signs of it and hides in the haze, rodding the sea-line’s smoky rim.

The first morning light, as the sunrise approaches, underlines the lack of awakening and the ensuing chaos in the mind, soul, and even the land, making room for shadows stretching long and dancing on the ground. Each waiting leaf faints in the shape of dimness. What happened to those encounters? What happened to the conversations with the trees? They marvelled when attention was given to them. Even the clouds lingered to listen. Now all seems abandoned, faded into nothingness, lost in time. Time got lost. What truly matters became invisible, lost, because now they feel loneliness, and the rest of the world also feels it.

Talks of a hasty life make ideas, progress, and bodies shiver. Living it means seeing the dimensions of hurt and freeze being unleashed. Unthinkable as it is, none of it is going away anytime soon. The lurking fears cannot be ignored as they grow at a rapid pace. Turning a blind eye is no longer possible, no more than ignoring the warning shivers chasing away bravery. Freedom. Free will. The purest movements of the sea seem too far away. They are dancing another life in the deep quietude of harmony. No effort was strong enough to recover them, to bring back the future, the time. What was left is now lying on the ground until the wind decided it was his to claim, took it away, and now it is gone. Is it?

The path is open, the choice yet unknown. The treasure-key of all and endless lives. Beneath the horizon, when all seemed lost, when the praise for slowness appeared to have no voice, the needle surrenders to an obsolete scent of unforeseen beauty. Lakes, rivers, mountains, and woods still have hope. Comparisons between lives and cultures are left aside. The warmth of the sun gently touches the beauty of a life without the ticking sound that makes decisions pour agony, without scaling down the truthfulness of feelings. A life of slow beauty endures decisions guided by poetry as the force capable of breaking the spell.

Far in the glowing east, she had an idea and made it happen. Farewell to the borrowed sensations of a road not taken. Farewell to the despair of time growing in her. Farewell to living a repetitive life mixed with other people’s expectations. All of a sudden, she was intrigued by fishing and tried catching a mermaid. She was intrigued by uniforms and joined the military for a day. She loved reading and indulged in writing disposable poems. She praised architecture and built her own home; gave it to a woman in the villa and never looked back. She delved into scripts and transformed her persona. She made sketches of pieces she wanted to wear and woke in the middle of the night to sew them. She loved feelings and embraced every single one of them. Without fear, because fear is what makes time miss lying over the long-awaited shoulder, like sand slipping through fingers.

She was chasing the rarest gem: time. Did she find it after all? Glances of the day should tell the answer with a sigh. She took the road less traveled by. Not tired of waiting or doubting. Not tired of roads constantly diverging in a wood, in two oceans. The unexpected path looking for a word that perches on the soul. She did not go gently into life. Because she was already flowing with life. Or maybe life was already flowing with her. Learning before it’s too late. Hoping for a lesson. A life to remember. Resting in the grace of humanity and praising not to tax lives with forethought. In praise of slowness. Writing down slow in history.

If the ocean was breathing slowly, then she needed no more. She was slowly breathing with the ocean. As one.