Return of the night owl

It had been about twenty minutes since I had left the lake behind and I had slowly set off for the small forest that stretched like an old cat at the foot of the small hill. It was a wonderful spring day. The sun gently caressed with its rays the vegetation that had been reborn like a phoenix bird, breathing again after a long cold winter. The sky, stained by fluffy clouds, was crossed by the traveling birds returning from their long vacation. The bees were buzzing, feeding on the nectar of the colorful flowers that embroidered the green garment. I loved spring. Along with it, I was also blooming. I would open my wings like a Tailed Judy butterfly and let myself be overwhelmed by the spring air.

I had woken up quite early, overwhelmed by a strong feeling that I needed to find something. It had been a long night in which the grunts, the stress and the unanswered questions hit the walls of my tired mind chaotically. And I prayed. I prayed to God to soothe my soul and to calm my mind, but in vain. I fell asleep extremely hard, with tearful eyes and a grieving soul. But that burning desire vibrated in my veins. I had to find something and I didn't know what. It was a strange and frustrating sentence, like when you try to remember something very important and you don't succeed. I felt the call of nature, so I drank my coffee quickly, I put on the first clothes I found in the closet and let my heart lead my steps where she wanted.

I lived alone in a small Mediterranean-style cottage, fifteen kilometers from the city, surrounded by hills. On the south side, there was a river that stretched along the main street to the city. And to the north, behind the house, was heaven. I loved the silence. Nature gave me the security and peace of mind I needed. I adored the cool mornings spent at the edge of the lake, reading Honoré de Balzac' books and enjoying coffee with milk or the nightly walks to the forest which was three hundred meters away from the house where I lived, where the lake kissed the land. I was heading to that forest, with slow and safe steps. The tops of the blades of grass tickled my bare ankles, feeling a slight dampness caused by the morning dew. The closer I got, the more and more clearly I heard the song of the birds that had their bed among the rich branches of the coniferous forest. The forest welcomed me benevolently, with a fresh vile and a fairytale image. It was as if I had stepped into another realm, expecting at any time to see the fairies resting their multicolored wings on the leaves of the trees. I continued my journey overwhelmed by a state of calm and tranquility, I was advancing without knowing where I would end up, but I was sure that I would find what my heart so desperately wanted to find.

I could see a few patches of the blue sky among the tops of the tall trees, listening in the background to the songs of the birds. They competed, chirping in unison in different tones, forming a splendid orchestra that vibrated in every atom of my body. Listening to those divine notes, I remembered a story written by Oscar Wilde, which I had read as a child. "Nightingale and the Rose". A magnificent and heartbreaking story at the same time, in which a nightingale hears a sad boy complaining that he had no rose in his garden to offer to the girl he is in love with. So the little nightingale goes in search of the rose. She hardly finds a bush of red roses, and in order for it to offer her one, the nightingale has to pay with her life. She sings to the young student one last song, and then, when the moon appears in the sky, the nightingale sticks her chest in the thorn of the rose bush. She sings the whole night, as the thorn penetrates deeper and deeper into her small bleeding chest, on the stave painted with her gorgeous chirping. So, paid with the blood and singing of the nightingale, with her pure life, a gorgeous rose blooms and the young man in love finds it at dawn. He snatches him and hurriedly walks over to the girl who stole his heart, but she refuses him. That story remained tattooed on my chest, the sacrifice of a small nightingale for the love of a young man. The sacrifice of love.

I was walking lost in my thoughts directed towards that gorgeous story with a tragic ending, noticing a little later that the sky had also creaked in the blood of the nightingale, now having a reddish tint. I had lost the notion of time. Had I really walked so much? It was impossible. I had left home in the morning, it could not have been so long since I was lost among the scattered trunks of the trees. Dusk leaned smoothly towards the forest, embracing it. It looked like the forest was metamorphosing. The spring greens were gradually replaced. First of an emerald green, then of a bitter green and finally of a dark green, so that in the end everything was submerged in an absolute black. It was getting dark so fast! The rays of the moon lit dimly in the empty sky, not even a star glittered over the vast expanse. The fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. I could barely see where I was going, my clothes were clinging to the branches that scratched my arms leaving stinging lines on my skin. The song of the birds stopped, being replaced by the rustling of the leaves. Fear appeared and I began to run away. I tripped, I fell, I got up. My heart was beating mightily, but without losing the burning desire that flowed through my veins.

I ran without thinking, without stopping, engulfed in adrenaline and panic. I ran until I reached a glade in the middle of which was a huge mansion. Above it, the moon seemed to swallow everything. I stopped a few feet away, studying and analyzing. The rhythm of the heartbeat returned to normal, being engulfed by a curiosity sewn with reluctance. The mansion rose frighteningly, losing itself in the high sky. It was built in gothic style on two floors, with high stone walls and two sharp towers, placed parallel, penetrating the sky. In the middle of them was a gothic rosette, a round flower that looked like a dark moon. The archway windows, made of wood, were huge, and where the stained glass windows were supposed to be, I could see a black abyss. It was scary and fascinating, I was drawn like a magnet to that bleak building. I walked slowly down the alley paved with stones up to the stairs leading to the massive metal door with forged ornaments. Although it was dark, that mansion seemed to be alive, I could feel its regular breathing under my legs throbbed with pain. The door was ajar. I pushed it gently and went inside.

The room was dimly lit by the chandelier that hung steadfastly from the ceiling and by several candles placed in various places. It smelled like wax and old books, a pleasant smell that sent me thinking in the bygone eras. In the middle of the room was a mahogany table and eight chairs of the same wood with various floral shapes carved. The lights of the flames danced chaotically on the black marble floor, giving an illusion of warmth. The wall on the right was covered by a library full of books, and on the left was a bas-relief trained by some angels. In front, after the heavy wooden table, were the stairs flanked by two doors on each side. I peeled off my stiff legs and began to explore that strange mansion.

The shelves of the library were covered with a thin layer of dust, the books were wrapped in leather. I chose a book at random, the material with which it was wrapped felt cold and a little sticky. I opened the front page where the title was written, "The Magic Keys of Solomon." I frowned a little puzzled and placed it back in place, continuing my inspection. The doors next to the stairs were all closed, I gave up the curiosity to find out what was behind them and I went upstairs. The stairs creaked beneath my steps, waking them up from a deep sleep, rebelling with moans and crying. Here, the walls were covered with a scarlet vinyl wallpaper, giving the impression that they were smeared with blood. Five silver framed paintings stood hanging on that bleeding background. My heart stopped for a fraction of a second when I saw that those silver frames contained my dark memories, painted in shades of gray. I touched with my fingertips trembling those odious images. The sufferings of the past devoured my paralyzed body. I pulled my hand suddenly and climbed the rest of the stairs to the first floor with tearful eyes.

I took a strong breath three times to calm down. That strange experience was intertwined for a part of me buried so deeply that I had thought her dead. Things I thought were forgotten returned with immense force, hitting my chest with dagger blows, one after another. I turned my attention to the long hallway that stretched out in front of me. On the floor was a hunter green carpet, the walls being covered by the same vinyl wallpaper, a few torches flickering weakly. On both sides there were several doors, it was as if I were in the horror hotel. At the other end I could see a high window and the base of the stairs to the second floor. That strong desire lit up again in my chest, so I started with confident steps towards the window through which I could see the beautiful moon. Every door I passed by whispered painful memories that I wanted deleted. It hurt terribly. All my grim past had caught up with me, waking up to life, tearing me to shreds. Only that hot desire kept me whole and gave me the strength to keep going. But the more I stepped up, the far away the window seemed to be. And the pain was becoming more and more unbearable, the whispers became howling and the memories reality. I fell to my knees and with a broken soul I screamed as loudly as I could, with all that suffering that was destroying me. Through tears and sighs I could still see the rays of the moon calling me. With the last shred of power and the desire almost extinguished, I began to crawl. I had to get there. I couldn't give up. Not now, when I was so close.

Eventually I arrived. With the smile of a mad man I looked to the starry sky. A branch that gently hit the bottle caught my attention, and on that branch stood a barn owl. I looked directly into her dark eyes, two galaxies of the same universe. My body relaxed instantly, my mind was clearer than ever, and my soul, slightly like a snowflake, was flying to the sky. And that's when I got it, I healed. I looked into myself, beyond the past that no longer existed, and I found myself, that soul created out of love. I stood up happy and at peace, heading to the top floor. Above the clouds, between the moon and the sun. Just another star.

I opened my sleepy eyes. The sun had crept through the drapes and kissed me chastely "good morning". I made my coffee, took the book from the dining room table, "A woman of Thirty" by Honoré de Balzac and went to the edge of the lake. I adored spring mornings accompanied by a good book and a hot coffee. I was reborn.