A transparent life

It's cold and rough, and his stride is hurried because he knows that at the end of the aisle, on the right, life awaits him. Barefoot on the tiles, he feels the cream streaks under every step. He never touched the wooden slats on the sides, but he knows they are fine and the wood should not be like this. Take a step to the side to avoid the wheelchair. His gaze is aimed at the final destination, which does not prevent him from noticing, with the corner of his eye, the round white clock on the wall: three thirty, as always. The white, sliding doors on either side of the hallway make a small current that he feels under his feet. It's worth every step. Cold neon lights make the corridor difficult to cross; he does not lose sight of the last door on the right. After one step, he throws himself against the door with all his force. He walks straight and confident, leaving the door behind him to close silently. He doesn't know how much time he has today.

The forest caught fire before his eyes and this did not seem to scare him at all. He slowed down his step and under his feet he felt a rough grass, a gauzy lilac. He stretched a hand. It absorbed every smell and every sensation around. Touching the tree made him feel a shiver run down his spine. The texture was right, only from the base, the bark turns along the trunk from a dark brown into an intense red.

The leaves are so fine to the touch, fleshy and juicy. All the leaves were a variety of yellow and orange that combined and created the illusion of the forest in flames. The sky was a poisonous vermilion that inspired veneration. He didn't know what to worship: nature, the dream, the senses that were given to him so sparingly, or maybe the possibility of sight. The clouds were like thin strips on the horizon, a junction between absinthe-like green and puce. Silence. He doesn't know how long it lasted, maybe 3 seconds, maybe 78 hours. His body needs it today. Valerian. It hasn't worked very well for a long time.

The girls at the pharmacy are nice to him and they all know his medication. Today there is the plump one. He realized by the way she walked and the speed with which she moved and the fact that she breathes harder after rushing.

- How do you sleep?

That's the question they all ask.

- I think I need something else. Teas don't help me anymore. You don't have some pills?

- Herbal, if you will. It is not advisable to mix sleeping pills with the pills you take.

- Teas certainly don't help me anymore. I'll try the pills.

- One in the evening, half an hour before bed.

It will be one and a half today. The noise makes him jump because he manages to distinguish many planes for the sounds around him. The light doesn't help, just the heat of the sun that warms him makes him know that it is day. Teas and pills. The only things he needs here. They are the bridge to the lost life.

The stride is alert, the tiles are cold, the clock is three and thirty minutes, the door is waiting for him. The forest is there. The colors surround it on all sides. The grass is more transparent today, due to the rain, but it has kept a shade of lilac. He goes forward through the trunks, lightly touching their bark with his fingertips. Going through the trees, he noticed that in the depths of the bark there are small creatures of a color reminiscent of the sea. He's never seen the sea, but he knows what he wants it to look like.

On another tree he barely notices a small creature standing on a branch and moving its wings as if it wanted to be noticed. It has a green head, blue face and beak, and its belly is a royal orange. No wonder he failed to find it among the leaves. Now he looks for other similar birds in each branch of each tree. He does not hear them because all his senses work together to help him see. He distinguishes a few sounds, including the chirping of birds, but everything seems to be on mute and he does not pay much attention to them. When the branches of the trees begin to move, he knows that the wind blows, the movement of the branches induces the sound, but his brain is focused on what his eyes notice. The way the branches start to move creates a whole vertigo of colors: yellow and orange leaves, which, when bent enough, let out small vermilion accents of the sky, along with the clouds, which are beginning to lose their intensity as if forming a completely different view every time.

Silence. It's his favorite part of the day, or of night. He does not know it, but his body has become accustomed to the morning routine from which he feeds. It is his favorite part of day because it is the only one that he can see. Inky. It’s the only time he is awake and not sorry. There is a little regret every time, but he accepts it.

He touched the face of a single woman. Of course, those of relatives too, just a few indeed, but they are not taken into account. She was young, but her face was aged. He felt in her skin an unevenness from all the palms received, relentless worries and a small gap between the cheek and the ear where the tears flow. He thanked her and apologized. There is a sound that occurs when someone is smiling. He heard it. When she first saw him, she didn't understand why he didn’t look at her too. She later understood. She tried to see like him, just through the hands and ears.

Noise. Light. Two pills. The hallway is there. White invades him along the way he crosses. Step to the left to avoid the wheelchair. The clock still shows three thirty. The current under the doors seemed to speed him up. Straight and with all his might in the door. It opens.

The forest is quiet today. The colors seem more faded, but they haven't lost any of their sweetness. He walks lightly, barefoot on the grass and looks for the bird. He walks far through the trees, staring at the sky and he sees two birds in flight above the color-laden branches. He stops and without looking, he sits face up. The branches stand still. He sees the whole sky among them. His attention is caught by a branch which vibrates slightly where a little bird took flight. He watches it fly. The plumage on its belly and the inside of its wings are cyclamen, but he doesn't know if its back is the same. Too bad we can see the birds in their splendor just from the bottom up, he thinks. Another branch was shaking. From it, another green bird soars. In short time, the sky is furrowed by dozens of different birds in colors that make him dizzy.

He missed the silence. That means he slept longer. He managed to fool himself and sleep in, to see more, to live longer. All the time he spends awake, he lives in constant fear. After many weeks, they had the courage to talk about something other than the shopping list. She thinks she took the first step. He knows that, in fact, he was the first.

-… And a vanilla ice cream…

- Strawberries.

- Strawberries?

- Yes. Changes in life must start with details.

He thought for a long time about how to approach her. It was nothing sexual, intimate. He felt in her voice a troubled tone and he didn't know how to help. She thought a simple one would help her have a conversation that could make her forget about problems for at least one minute. He was smiling at her and she smiled back. He knows it wasn’t out of complacency, because he always heard that small imperceptible sound of a sincere smile.

Two pills and a valerian tea. He lies on the bed and waits. The outside noise never changes. Feel the light on the skin. It's like he's burning. Changing positions don't help him. He's starting to get stressed. It's starting to get worse and worse, uncontrollable and he realizes that this will not help him. Another pill, maybe he can rush the process. One, two, three steps and one more to the left. He puts his finger in the glass and starts to slowly pour water. He opens the mouth and feels the soft pill on his tongue. He holds it for two seconds until he feels it becomes sticky then he swallows it with a little water. Return. Take a step and three others. He lies back in bed. He begins to breathe deeply, systematically.

White. The tiles are cold. The cold in his legs speeds up his gait. Step to the left. Seat. Three thirty. Cold neons. Door.

The forest is choppy today. The branches are shaken so hard that they almost reach the ground and the leaves almost fall from the trees. He doesn't mind at all, as long as he's there in that little universe of his own. The birds are crossing the sky in all directions, admiring that explosion of colors around him, he feels full of life, of color and for a second a thought runs through his mind: “this is paradise”.

The green of the clouds takes over the whole sky and their movement seems to be a swirling river that tries to swallow whatever comes its way. The shades of green are so many and intense, that he is absorbed in their dance. His attention is deviated from all this chromatic fairy tale by an imperceptible sound. It doesn't matter. If he loses concentration, he risks not feeling the colors. Small strips of vermilion appear on the horizon, but they disappear just as fast as they appear. The sound persists as in a distant plane that he approached as if dragged by the clouds. Green, yellow, orange, vermilion and a spot. The shout can no longer be avoided because it is so shrill that it grabs everything with it. From the height of the sky, from the spot, he is pierced by a vibration that blurs everything around him. The noise covers everything and the stain, gliding towards the ground, begins to have an outline.

Growing, flying in a circle, it forms a spiral above him and makes acrobatics in the air as if it were about to disintegrate. Its wings are outstretched, the tail is outstretched, the long beak is like an arrow, and its gaze is fixed, it keeps looking at him, no matter where he is. For a second, he stays still, frozen, admiring its plumage. Cobalt.

Small drops of sweat run down his forehead. He feels his back as if in a full bathtub of ice. He feels that the light floods him and the heat melts him. He's scared.

- Hello.

- Hi. Did I catch you during the break?

- There's a colleague inside.

- It's okay, I'm waiting for you. What are you reading?

Astonished, with her eyebrows raised, her eyes wide open as if popping out of suspicious orbits, she opens her mouth slightly and the smoke continues its way around his face.

- How did you know?

- Books smell stronger than cigarettes. When you can't have something, you know everything about it.

- Essay on blindness.

She blushed. She was ashamed. The words had come out of his mouth like cigarette smoke.

Her mouth was not wide open as the words left her lips.

- I heard about it. What’s it like?

- Not what I expected. Someone recommended it to me.

She was lying. She had good intentions. She just wanted to know.

- Do you know those birds that croak?

- The crows?

He makes a thud from his throat and tensing his diaphragm, a "cra" resounds pretty clear. A shiver runs through him.

- Yes, those. I always dreamed of one. It's the only thing I remember from a dream after I wake up. He was lying.

- I don't like them, they predict death in a dream. They are black, ugly, miserable and eat leftovers.

- Black… Mine was blue. Well, at least I have something in common.

- What? 

- Black. 

Pills. White. Three thirty. Cold. Door.

He walks lightly on the lilac grass. The forest with all its colors no longer presents an interest. He walks smoothly, his body is almost numb, but his eyes are constantly searching for the cobalt bird. He carefully moves through the trees and trembles with each movement of the branches.

The little birds, which once fascinated him, were no longer of interest. There was something in the cobalt bird that attracted him, but also frightened him, to the same extent. His gaze was searching for it, his look was sharp and it crossed the forest in all directions. At intervals he would stop and listen the silence, hoping he might distinguish the cry.

When his eyes looked at one point, the color was clear, not as intense as usually, but he could see it. Instead, the peripheral vision had begun to subside, the colors were blurred, transparent, almost blended, with only vague contours. Vertigo. Trying to focus on colors now, he regained the sight of intensity and nuances, but it was harder and harder to concentrate. Now he began to walk harder and harder, faster and more frantically. Everything around made him agitated. He was running away. He no longer knew what he was looking for and what he wanted. He needed the cobalt bird.

Then he heard. It was the shout. Clear and clear. He stopped and waited. He couldn’t figure out where it came from. He closed his eyes. It was intense, almost deafening. He opened his eyes and there it was. The obsidian bird. The plumage had changed. It was an intense obsidian, yes, it could reflect in the plumage. The bird flew over him and performed a dance, a code he could not decipher. Then he saw.

The lobby is white. Under the soles he feels the cream of the tiles he is stepping on. Wooden slats of oak, on both walls, show the way: still ahead. On the right, occupy almost halfway down a black wheelchair. Take a step to the left to avoid it. The white, round clock with black Roman numerals is stuck at half past seven seconds. On the left there are three white, sliding doors at equal distances. On the right side, like a mirror, three more white, sliding doors. Long neon lights shine coldly in the hallway, making it look longer than it actually is. The last door on the right.