Blindness

I tiptoe along the path as if not to awaken that which has slept within me for centuries. I strive to follow the path recommended by generations without taking shortcuts, without distorting the truth, and without exposing what truly shines. The forbidden locks, I have lost their key, and even if I try to open them, my hands become slippery with the very essence that sanity exudes as one grows up. Small threads of light dawn in my eyes, reminding me of how they wove the moon, and how many escaped its beauty to avoid temptations.

We are more than what we do or say, whispering to the dream gnomes who flee when questions have run dry. Do not follow me if you do not want to get lost, for it is not an ordinary labyrinth; it lacks symmetry and an exit, containing only decision points within the most intricate answers, where many still reside. I no longer look down, for I have lost all the clues that once spoke to my ear; now the clouds assist me in finding myself once again in this infinite universe of definitions.

What is that called, the art you attempt to finger-paint with bold colors and untamed dreams, the canvas of life, a quaint masterpiece, deciphering tastes and unnamed paths? What can we do with what we imagine or invent, from whispers of possibilities, so vast, with a sliver of fortune and courageous intent, in the depths of our souls where dreams reside?

If we could touch the texture of what we feel, caress the essence of hope and desire, breathe life into fragments that time stole, we would unveil a world where dreams never tire. For in the fabric of time, worn and torn, lies the wisdom of ages, waiting to be explored, the path to the impossible, not as crowded as mourned, with boundless horizons, where dreams are undisturbed.