Let the nightingale free again!

Somebody once said that springtime is the land of awakening; that the March winds are the morning yawn. I believe that’s true. There’s nothing cozier than waking up on a spring Sunday morning, playful rays filtering through the window and resting their selves on your face. Eyelashes fluttering like the fragile wings of butterflies. Then you open your eyes - green orbits lost in café au lait – to see the spring wonderland. How can you not feel the tingles when you pass your finger pads on the tip of the blades? How can you not hear the ladybirds whispering their bliss that a new chapter has begun?

For me, every spring is like a rebirth. Every spring I feel like a child, although I’m conscious that nothing can restore those wonderful moments of childhood, when we used to go in the park and draw little nothings on the pavement, when we used to eat pink cotton candy at the fair or dream to be Cinderella, so that we can find a Prince Charming. Not even spring can bring back the times when I was a tom-boy with scratched knees, when I would climb a tree, when I would take my mother’s wedding dress and prepare my very own ceremony without worrying about the consequences.

Spring is like a natural border between the multiple phases of our existence. Every year, we claim that we are more mature. But is that really true? Do we ever detach ourselves from the world of dolls and mud pies? I know that I still haven’t. But I don’t pretend that I have. The other phase, that we tend to call maturity, is just a fake drawing, a mask, a caricature of childhood. It’s like seeing a child with a wrinkled forehead, tears pouring from his eyes and trembling bottom lip, all because someone destroyed his sand castle. Well, this sand castle represents nothing but years of spring, of living in wonderland, in a fortress. When spring is dispelled, you remain out in the storm, facing the trouble all alone, dealing with other kind of dragons.

And March…March is the moment when you make your first steps. You, like everybody else, are enthusiastic that you’ve finally made it. Slowly, you’ve reached the force to stay on your own feet and you’re proud of it. But, when you least expect it, the snow come back and you are again lost in the squall, only this time is impossible for you to get out.

It’s good that you’ve lived your 17 years. Because time doesn’t go back.