“Every forgetfulness returns, all moments are history”The Messenger
By Ariadne Gallardo Figueroa
Taking charge of what we have built, we comment on it and we do that; otherwise, we lose the common thread of the scene that we have to live. the man from the South with all the determination launched an unexpected message of those that are only conceived when the journey needs them when there is no other way to attend to the listener.
Then he looked around and realized that the ounce was only looking at him in the distance, his territory reached that place, there was no time to change the plan, her moment was no longer that, the man observed her with those quiet nostalgia that as the days went by, he had ceased to be afraid of becoming his prey and to understand that she only took care of the passage in her territory and her space.
The man raised his arms to the sky, grateful to have managed to reach the limit of the world he knew and at the same time understand that his passage through the new path would be plagued with new predators and possibly some friends.
He felt how the shadow of a huge condor covered his body and encouraged him to continue, nothing could come between the open space of the sky and its imposing landscapes, so determined and with a firm step, he continued towards the unknown and made his way with that energy that gives him hope.
In another part of the vast continent whose name would bury stories and build others, Painani observes the piece of flint that will help her build a hunting spear and a means of sustenance; Now she knows that she is not alone, she decided one path and left the other, the bifurcation disappears as the days go by, with the career that she has been slow and constant, not abandoning is the best advice her tutor could give her and she knows it.
How many others would do the same in the course of their time, build instruments to use them and achieve their purposes? Nobody knows but what she now recognizes is that what is thought and shared creates an echo in the distance and leaves a path to follow or simply abandon.
She kept her obsidian weapon and moved away from the place where others could smell her, feel her, stalk her, covered her face with mud and her invisibility made her stronger, it is impossible to defeat a warrior disguised, her camouflage is a talent learned in that place. where it became what it now is.
The sea appeared before her eyes and she remembered the words of those who helped her at the beginning of her journey, beautiful, greenish-blue like the look of love that waits with patience and tenderness and she felt its rhythmic sway and understood that the adventure was about to change her mind. life forever, with vigour and without being entertained, she followed the path of golden sands, understanding the song of the conches and their secrets.
The intelligence of the priestess in the temple of Ometeotl had warned her of the singing of sirens, and at the same time of the immense value that a conch has to transmit messages and be part of them. Painani drew in her mind the face of that beloved teacher who set her on a path that she had possibly only travelled with the power of imagination, that intuition that had given her the absolute magic to move in the distance and perhaps in time.
The immense sea showed the solar semicircle when it vanished, losing itself in the depths of its depths; but he never stopped touching her skin, erasing her tracks as a sign of complicity, sheltering her person so as not to be persecuted by anyone who wanted to harm her.
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