A day I was a bird, a graceful bird with dazzling brown and yellow feathers, proud owner of a strong-shaped beak that point to the ground, contrasting with everything on me which aspires to the blue sky. That day I flew, I spread my wings side by side, right to left. I flew as high as any bird had flown before. I flew over the stratosphere until I had no air in me. Then I blew up. Every particle of me became dust, as dust looked for where it belongs, dropping me toward the ground, where I shouldn’t had to depart. I scattered myself across the grassland. There I got fused with the earth; we, both, were one and thus we followed until a stream dampened us, then we were not longer dust and earth, we were a germinated seed, we were a flower. A fresh yellow and crimson flower.
Sadly I never flew again; I was motionless, was just stuck in the ground, waiting for the rain and the butterflies’ visits, but planted as well.
Till I opened my eyes and realized I couldn’t move but my eyes. In this cold bed, tubes surround me, violate my body. They go inside-outside me and afterward plug in those noises, anodynes machines. Besides are those familiar faces that sometimes look direct to me, but seem as they don’t really see me, as if they think I wasn’t here, lying in this inert body, stranded in this bed of Intensive Care Room.
