The heartbeat danced these days like nobody was watching, clouds did the same, the weather was cold and clear and she came across a mountain, after she passed a long path in the middle of a withered valley with lots of sheers and a broad shore at its beginning. Everything around was lush and leavy, but the peak of the hill was grey, edged and cragged, at the first glance it looked like a august sovereign, but then its frostiness overtook all the gentle glays. She could not think anything, she was overwhelmed of this rare beauty and she hoped not a lot of people gathered around there in the summer to sing at bonfires and be happy below the starry sky. But when she examined the borders between the green hills and the beginning mountain she could not find any evidence of past fires; no charred earth and grass, no ashes; no remnant of human things. She was happy and sad at the same time. Happy that no one destroyed this wonderful place in the past and sad that she could not show this wonderful place anybody.
She was halfway up a small path on the hill, when she saw a mysterious slenderly built figure moving towards her on a serpentine footpath that cut like a streamlet in the landscape, roughing up the past and the future of this wonderful place. She concluded to ask the slight built man about the grey mountains and as they drew nearer to each other she waved shy and offered an unassertive greeting.
“Good day,” she said.”Hey,” he replied, but avoided looking at her while she inspected his pitiable sight. She looked as his almost bald head he tried to hide with a brown hat, his wrinkles, that were all over his face and then saw that his hands were white, but red at the knuckles and blue of all the popped out veins. In his left hand there was an old fashioned dirty white handkerchief and in his right hand there was an old walking stick. She gasped for breath and started to ask about the mountains but he avoided a sight again and passed her without making a noise, his features set in a kind of absent-minded determination, he looked as if he had seen a more beautiful place like that before.
She watched him ascend the mountain. She watched his slow and winding way up the path down to the valley. Suddenly he stood still there in silence and had a look down to the valley. Then he started to weeping. She watched him cry and felt a deep haul around her heart. The tears burst out of him, and watered the ground at his feet. He cried tacility for almost five minutes and then slowly moved himself into tranquility for another twenty. At the end, he even wiped at his eyes with his red knuckles and took his handkerchief and wiped his face. Through all of that she stood there watching this scene, watching him sob and suffer, watching his hands becoming even whiter and his knuckles even redder, his veins even bluer from holding his walking stick as hard as he could. She stood there watching in silence and his sobs and imagined that his tears would become something beautiful someday.
Finally she saw him taking a deep breath and then he looked up. He looked all around the valley with a expressionless look, while inhaleting air as if it was his last breath ever. Then, he took another deep breath and let the air out slowly. Then he shivered – with no bitterness in his eyes anymore, as something had taken place in his body and he started to take his way back where he had come from. He walked all the way back to where she still stopped watching him. She was a bit ashamed that she was watching him. She tried to apologize for her behaviour, but then started to speak to her and he said he had had to take care of this first, he said, and now that he had done so, there is nothing that she had to regret.
“You see, gal,” he said, “sometimes life will inevitably slap you down, life will hurt you uninterrupted and this happens all around the world. This valley, according to an old story, was once made for the august sovereign, a blue blanket of a small ocean and the mountain back there was just a peak which demolished this wonderful blue blanket, and on this peak there lived a blackbird who had once lost someone that it loved dearly with every fibre of its heart. It sang so loud and it sang so clear and although the bird tried to live its live as good as it was possible, losing the other blackbird had left a deep wound and so the bird sheared the blue blanket. The blackbird found no way to cure this wound and so every day it sheared a little bit more the blue blanket of ocean and in the night the bird tried to wrap the blanket around its fragile body. Then one day after many years the bird stopped shearing the blanket, it had hurt its wound enough itself and was ready to live again. So it built a nice nest again, went on living, enjoying the sun, and cold wind and the cool weather. Anyway. The days went by faster as someone can imagine and the bird could not help notice that the blanket cleared away and its pieces made their way to the mostly overcast sky. There was no blanket around the mountain anymore one day, there was no remembrance anymore. So, some hurtful moments the bird decided to leave its beloved mountain peak.”
She starred at him with brimming eyes.
“Don´t be sad ever” he told her, “nobody succeeded in creating that kind of big blue blanket again. Some people find comfort creating a blanket to protect theirselves but it´s their decision to keep the blanket or just leave the pieces behind, find things and love people elsewhere.”