Dreamers and Writers

The sun was held high in the sky. The weather was neither cold nor hot, it was just nice. There was not too much wind that day, just a light breeze now and then. The swing moved back and forth in a monotonous way; the trees holding it for it not to fall. The birds sang with the morning sun and danced from tree to tree. She looked up to the small pieces of sky that were visible through the manes of leaves. The sky was clear with just a few white clouds here and there that gave a sense of life to the sky itself. She sighed and looked down at her feet swinging with the swing itself. Today was the last day. Tomorrow would be another day different from the ones before. She would go back to the same monotony of life but right now she still could enjoy what was left. Too much had happened the day before, and during the week itself, and in the week before that sitting peacefully on the swing did not quite fit her now. It all started the day everything began. Same swing, same trees, s

This is the story of three; a woman who could see the future, a moneymaker, and the son of Bruce Lee. Three friends, almost as if they were family. Two women and a man. Three foreigners from a distant –yet not so distant– land that came in search of adventures or a bit of relaxation. They came to me on a spring night. It wasn't chilly nor hot. It was just fine. A common day, yet a different one. They talked and laughed. They were old –yet young– and enjoyed life to the fullest. They also wine and dine. They stay for a while and I watched them from afar. I don't remember their drinks. I don't remember their meal. I just remember what they said to me. "Listen carefully girl," said the son of Bruce Lee, "listen to the future that could and could not but at the end would be, for preachers are known for their third eye" The woman who could see the future then said. "Greatness resides in those who are not afraid to fly and fall. I

Let me write the words held tight inside my mind. Let me scream through the letters on the paper. Let the dark ink be the darkness in which all my fears reside and are unleashed. Let the hours pass, the flames melt the wax, 'till my hands lay lifeless at my sides. Let the moonlight caress my sleepy face 'till the sun rises again and I awake with a new dream to persuade. Let the wind blew all my worries and inquiries. Let the stars shine with the hopes and loves of mortals. Let the oceans rise and fall, the volcanoes sleep and explode. Let the dragons fly or vanish in the midst of fantasy. Let the world stop or move along. Let everything be as it is or become something else. But never let, the ink and paper to disappear.

“Where is Jim Crow section On this merry-go-round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored Can’t sit side by side Down South on the train There’s a Jim Crow car. On the bus we’re put in the back– But there ain’t no back To a merry-go-round! Where’s the horse For a kid that’s black?” – Merry-Go-Round by Langston Hughes There's plenty of room here my little child ‘Cause you’re no longer in the South Where white and black would sit apart To let the pillars of their town Crash and fall till there is no one left a stand Here your horse awaits you But beware ‘cause everyone will envy you Those who ignore and even those who know Would try to take you down  So hold on tight You would be alone or you would have company by your side But leave the merry-go-round for those who can’t move forward No matter your skin or house White or black The ones that are left