Dualities

 

Between what we think and feel, there can be chasms. We all know that. I think of you and I can't feel you physically. But it's not true at all, not with regard to love. You see, we continue to love souls, spirits whose bodies have gone up in smoke, and yet the thread remains, through which this love rises and falls. A fine filigree string of ether, of divine light, unites us all forever to infinity and beyond.

Only emotions can keep the fire burning, memory, the property of thought, but both are safeguarded by these affections. It is a magical process, although the human sciences have tried to transform it, to explain it, to think of it into something rational, without any trans-temporal property.

Today, there was a party in heaven. And I was present and when I say present, I mean my heart, yes, today there was a party in my heart. My young father was smiling, sitting in his mahogany chair, and a dark stone wall surrounded by bougainvillea and wisteria perfumed the air. You were there, with me, without even being able to speak. Only if I cheered you up.

But I didn't cheer you up, I just glimpsed all the details with attention and curiosity. I had never attended a birthday party on that plane. Many figures walked between my father's hands and feet. A room open to time, where smiles and accomplice whispers kept the music playing and the faces of the birthday boy and his friends in perpetual joy.

I saw the cards, I think they were playing Swedish, the glasses clinked with lemonades and sodas, sparkling wine and cigarettes. Yes, in heaven you can smoke too. Everything happens there, as it does here. Except for bad feelings. There, the feelings are noble, unlike those of this plane, which fluctuate, as much as the moods of the people, the irritating frustration and the unsettling joy of fire. There, even the sense of smell is noble, because there is no any nauseating smell, any lie to disturb, the perfume of bougainvillea and wisteria would neutralize any other less appropriate odor, so to speak, there is no smell of candles, nor of dead animals, nor the cry of the helpless or the sad flash of disease. If you're attentive, only the sound of the harpsichord and the oboe flutes remains permanent, everything else is sighs and laughter, lights that spread beyond the visible. There is neither night nor day, neither heat nor cold, neither is sown nor is there reaping, perpetual music is the constant keynote. It's dominant.

Today the party showed me new faces, in addition to the ones I already knew, I could be sure that the material of the dreams reproduced during nights many years ago were based on other birthdays in which I was present, faceless looks embroidered with that contagious material of love. Even among those who had been rivals on the plane in which we find ourselves, we clothed in the physical body hold that thread of love which is only visible there. He who has eyes can see. And the eyes are not these two balls that we have in profile between two ears, two parietals, no. The eyes are this ball of fire called love.

On the other plane, the fire is permanent joy, between some who arrive and leave and others who stay and linger, between some who whisper and smile and others who seem surprised by every movement of leaves in the bushes and by every note reproduced by the instrumentalists. The hallelujahs are all of golden light, the angels are all that moves around the wires that vibrate in an orchestra.

The voices are infinitely sweeter than the most beautiful siren songs. Today they sang the birthdays of all the departed fathers, just as they do every day, because every day would be the birthday of those who are and those who have stayed and those who have gone and are coming back. And at the end of every anniversary, when we are invited, those who come back down try to encourage us to return to this plane of experiences, of exploration, as another important journey for the development of the soul, to fulfill the covenants, promising that when we return it will be much better, we will be able to see many more souls that we miss, a longing that only finds warmth in apotheotic music and in the magic of love. And this duality in which we live is, if you look closely at the duality in which you will continue to live, on the other side, because being born here means escaping from there, dying here will always mean a prolonged arrival home, and all the trips we make, here as there, always make us feel like returning home. 

On earth, my father would blow 79 years today, if he were here. I helped. Today, instead of smoothing out the wrinkles of his expression, he smoothed out mine of concern, which he sensed them. Today I saw my father's frown, full of little stripes that are said to be of happiness. I'm beginning to believe so. That my father was happy today. And if the day before yesterday, my car lost its brakes and disappeared on a steep descent and I didn't see it again, today, I saw it again, in poor health, it's true, but with its modest air, looking at me from the corner, completely brown with dust from the works of Penafiel Verde, but my father did not allow me to be without the brakes. Today, in the north, I was assured that I would not run out of brakes. They gave me the abs oil and asked me to find a way to leave the car at their hotel for two days. I told them I would see about my availability. But today I don't have to think about it anymore. That's all for today. I brought with me from the sky a cracked candle for his birthday that hadn't even happened yet. I'm pretty sure he put the candle in my hands. Yes, my father's birthday was today, but I received the gift. 

And you see, when you read me, that there are no lands, no characters, no physical obstacles, and no other parameters that prevent love from happening and progressing in ascension. Between us, there will always be this thread of fine filigree, of love that ascends and continues between planes. Still with the candle between my teeth, nibbled and spat out, I felt the smell of flowers flood me and soon after, your smile. I kissed your closed eyes, smelled your scruffy hair on the pillow and smelled of flowers. No, I'm sober. I saw you and I didn't even drink, I didn't even see you physically speaking. Love doesn't die.