Winds with the sea inside (NSFW)
The wind is wind to make the gold dance but not wind to take the grey away. And the rain… the rain is not rain enough to wet the wind. To bring the day.
Outside he is spinning around, deeply wounded – not lethal – healable with time, running around trying to bite he’s own tail. In circles. Always in circles. Inner ones.
The trees are still trees even if humble bending like human slaves being slapped by the nonsense and undirected wind lost in their movements uncontrolled but never breaking. Without a scream.
Waters lost long time ago their power to mirror the colors or even the mythological and fantasized shapes and forms of the clouds and birds flying over against themselves. They became blurred like when you don’t want to see your own self.
The air is warm. Warm and strong like an embracing chest. Hard and velvet touching.
I wonder how the sea must be. How the waves must be happy throwing themselves against the rocks like dead bodies full of life. But I just wonder as the sea is way too far from my bending trees.
I only know how’s my blurred tea against my chest. My inner.
Steam and drops and foam above. And clouds inside. With different shapes as if they could bring happiness to a disbeliever. Death doesn’t have steam and drops and foam above. Death doesn’t have, nor believes. Life… life is different. Life is the moment of eternity when you’re able to feel pain. And love. And coldness. Playing with fire.
The book was written in blood on human skin paper with a cover perfectly done with the best chest. You could touch it. And feel. And smell. And even lick it. Read, feel and smell, word by word as if have lived once. As if you had in your own hands a past life of someone else who left it to you. Written. Written as a love letter. From his life to your hands. From his chest to yours.
He is the one who’s dead. But he’s traveling. And you’re not. You’re still. You’re still and cold with his warmness in your hands. He lived. And you will most probably die without feeling it. He loved. You? You’re too busy watching the wind passing and blowing and bending the trees. And you. You have the book. The book with the love letter still warm.
With the sea inside. With living waves licking your own chest.
photographs from the series “Silent Skins”
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preview/purchase the book: NUDE by Gonzalo Benard
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