Sorrowfully captive in the realm of impossible oblivion, objects of solitude and silence reach him like a zephyr wind making way between the skin and vegetation of nature. Moreover, he finds them in every corner that borders the wind, in every wave of an ocean which is longingly infatuated with the moon, and in each glance of an unblemished star. He sees them, here and there, nonchalantly floating on each of the tears of dawn and in all the mystical reflections which have fed a water mirror. He bumps into them every day, every morning and every evening, within the errors of the fugacious and deceptive culpability of time.
 
He sees them, every time, in the soul that yesterday left his body.
 
Objects of silence and loneliness are looking for autumn souls, the morning pastime of breeze between the grass, those illusory instances in which there is no moon but the night still dreams about her, some scents of furtive beauty and possibly a bed sheet made with the sweet petalled body of a flower.
 
To sum up, objects of silence and loneliness seek rhythmical spells of waves on life, with the only aim of making themselves everlasting as long as they blend life in a broad haze and setting up their own souls over the narrow parquet on which the most desperate of infinities is laying.
 
Yes, his soul, that is, the soul of objects we’ve been talking about, is the soul that arises after the gentlest calcinations of a dream.
 
Many and quite varied are the objects of silence and loneliness (which, as can be accurately assumed, will never fall down from the sky). The Piano of uncertainty is, of course, one of them.
 
Said Piano of uncertainty is, by the way, a massive grand piano with ivory keys and a glance of nostalgia. A piano with which those livid sordid melodies so suitable of those empty spaces between stars can be played.
 
That’s why, under an amber sky and a pearly beautiful moon, the music stemming from that old piano can well manage to embed a deep astonished sadness as a lyrical tearful ocean deep within me.
 
An old unfinished diary, some glasses that aren’t good for anybody anymore, a rag doll who’s lost her eyes, or some love letter that will never be delivered, amongst many other objects of similar silence, are nothing but oversights that occasionally look back.
 
They are the addition of all the nights that have bathed themselves in a single solitude.
 
They are the objects of silence and loneliness which are there, that is, in existence itself, so infinity will not endure starvation.
 
Let us mention, though, not just objects of silence and loneliness, but poetry as well.
 
Let us say poetry, within the ballet of a dizzying fog, can well voice some objects which resist saying goodbye and which might make said voice fade out within the slopes of a flirty winding breeze.
 
Yes, occasionally a winding breeze brings us voices of people calling us with all their heart even when they do not know us at all.
 
Occasionally, as the night bates her wings amidst the dead silence, we stumble into something that reminds us of someone who was never with us and who might have been disguised as a memory. Somebody who does not remain with us as a person and who will never fall from the sky but who might be travelling through it one way or another.
 
The night knows it, rekindling fire is a task destined to human hearts. She knows it because night’s an absolute term where the silkiest music of an existence crackling the remotest densest blaze of time, and not just the symbols of silence or the finest sparkles of mystery, are thoroughly winking.

© Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos