Fifty-Seven

It was a field marked by the smells of summer. The sun had already set. The world was violet, bluish green and soft red. There was a woman standing in the tall grass, with her back towards me. She started to walk slowly, her movements suffused a scent of hay. A wind of whirling colours rose in her steps. And she kept on going.

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Fifty

I saw locks of hair attached to a line, blowing in the wind, like clothes to dry. There was also hair lying around on the floor in my mother’s kitchen, and outside, all over the yard, half-covered by sand.

Suddenly, they became butterflies and flew towards the cemetery where my father is buried. I wished they had brought him to me alive, instead of visiting his grave.

Then there was a little girl whirling two bowls of fire attached to two strings. She turned around and around herself. Now she transformed into a very small man with a burnt face and now she was a little girl again.

Next, we were surrounded by a herd of paper birds. I was worried that they would get on fire. They did, but with such fragile beauty… they were burning in all colours until the wind carried them away.

The night was approaching fast and the burning paper birds became iridescent, weaving their light into the darkness like northern lights.

Then I saw little girls jump off a cliff, one after the other, spinning in their fall. They floated in the air for a moment before they plunged, as if dancing. The Siberian man stood right under the rock and caught them each, one by one.

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Thirty

We were sitting side by side with the Siberian man, watching the northern lights playing in the night sky for a long time.

Later, he took me to rocky seasides, snowy mountains and plains, forests, rivers… everything in the colours of the sunset or the aurora, I couldn’t tell. It was beautiful.

He kept saying “The world is one”. “The world is one”. “The world is one”. Until I could feel it, deeply, inside and out. The world is one.

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