I follow the rows of the shawl that shelters, by laborious hands in weaving loom.
Vertical and horizontal strands intertwine in monochrome tone, tight, close together.
Every so often a stretch of multicolored and vibrant threads gets in the way, without asking permission.
And as life resembles a repeating pattern and you walk,
The vertical threads are those that push forward, or backward suspended
The horizontals are outputs to the sides, left or right, your favorite.
There is a moment of decision, and it is before the weaver with his comb compresses the threads.
As in life, it’s a moment, or you take it and you throw yourself, or you leave it and you stay.
The multicolored section in a drastic change on the base tone, is its vertebra.
A ray of light, a turn in routine, a glow of shades like wheels.
Fuchsia, yellow, orange, green, blue, red, magenta, colors words.
They break into the routine of the monochromatic shawl that life weaves.
Like an abrupt cut but of beautiful contrast, where, if I wish, I flee.
To dance dressed in orange tunic, with green headdress, pink scarf, and red booties.
I surreptitiously escape by the edge of the shawl, stealing multi-colored threads of his,
Before the life weaver begins again with the monochrome tone, shroud.
Carefully I avoid that the comb of the weaver press me again to the shawl of life.
Sneaking up, camouflaged among my threads I escape to live my own adventure,
Until the weaver misses the monochromatic strand when it starts depressed
After so much colorinche rabid, of excess.
What if I do not run? , I doubt. What if I go back? .My crazy head!
But I’m already out of the shawl of life, it’s just the fear of being free that feels.
With my green toque, orange dress, pink scarf and red booties, which weigh like rocks.
I will live outside the tight fabric of the life shawl, self-sufficient.
I will stretch in my body, I will be free wherever I want, or where I play.
I will dance at night like crazy in the zones of comrades tones,
To remind you that color exists, copper flare,
And when I get tired and just habituated,
I will sleep on the colored ribbons in fever,
But not caught, free, made a fluff, a fire,
Camouflaging me among the thousand tones of my companions strands trapped and tight,
Telling them in their eternal prison, my adventures full of flash.