The Wheel HTML version
Zoom. And start. Here it goes. With an exhilarating energy that sets it in
motion, the certainty that the next second, and the next too, it will still be
moving, still be going, still advancing… on and on, anticipating, like a
determined runner, breathing for the next minute of the race.
The Wheel. The magic Wheel. The rain is a part of it, sometimes. As the
asphalt flies off under the wheel, the drops of water fill the air like a soft mist.
The grey asphalt, still rough and dry, soon begins to seem darker and patches of
water mark their random presence, small signs that the road is an unpredictable
realm, swept off into the distance. Freedom, completely. It spreads, it unfolds, it
The rain is an organic presence. It integrates thoughts and metaphysical
perception into the view of roaming steamy wet horizon, from the leaves that
are timeless, so that suddenly, time is completely mixed up. Rain evokes
memories and anounces the unknown. It belongs to the Wheel. I think that I do
too, sometimes. I wonder though.
I am the Racer. I am the one who sees the rain. I am the one who feels the
drops fall even before they do. Because I am flying above the road.
So how does it contain, comprise and extend the bridge to the other side? I
don’t know. Apparently, it just does.
There it is: the swing. Under the big old oak, the greenish brownish nostalgic
oak, so protective and yet so oblivious to whatever goes on around. The swing
hangs in chains and whispers softly as the last rays of summer bring a sweetness
of autumn over the fields around the wooden house. The swing moves slightly
on and off. She sits reading. She sits writing. She is humming. The autumn signs
make her frown a little, but she is half absent to the landscape around. She might
be twenty by now, twenty or something, it doesn’t matter… she’s got that
permanent charm of the forests beyond the hills, the slender oaks reflect their
reddish-brown authentic and natural exuberance in the curls of her hair, as she