Against the nebula, someone suggested the idea of ​​standing in front of a fig tree until you see a fig emerge from among the tender leaves. Surely the human eye is capable of capturing the event. How long would it take to be there, sleepless, staring, to see the fruit spring up live? Not too much, there are fig trees that are not there one day and the next they are. It would be a spring way to grab something. Lately, we are bombarded by the threat of a world in absolute fog, where the true and the false are already indistinguishable. The latest advances in artificial intelligence, which can be controlled by the Natural Stupidity of the greed of the dark side of man, leave us trembling.
So we were circling this possibility of fig contemplation, when a bouquet of tender pink tulips arrived at the house. Twelve buds still smooth as babies, between bright green branches that seemed to vibrate to the sky, opening day by day into voluptuous flowers that, naturally, soon began to decay.
We have been observing the traffic or drying of the bunch for two weeks and it does not look like we will get out of it. It was time to throw it in the trash and it got out of hand. We missed one of those trains that, without knowing it, you miss forever, and maybe now there is no other choice but to get to the end of the tulip. If it exists The fact is that we are in a reverse situation to the fig plan, but similar. And that bush that we now have on the table, in a vase no longer watered to avoid frogs, in its decay, is artistic.
Having passed the nostalgic moment of the smoothness of the petal, these remains of flowers, between inclined pistils, turn yellow and twist into unpredictable, wild shapes and colors; animal mouths, cosmic dust, celestial bodies among the leaves. Yesterday a friend brought some watercolors and painted the decrepit bouquet, that’s how far the theme is coming.
Then we imagine a world where, once the lines between the natural and the artificial have been erased, the jocular streets are filled with humans who, in euphoric desperation, hug, touch and whisper poems to each other for check that they have skin. On the other hand, we think the bouquet will start to speak. We will probably continue to report.
