A Bank of clouds, arrived from the South, has taken over the sky. The dark surprises us in the middle of the field. My bike is silent and I shall confine myself to give pedals. Water snow falls and a cold wind has been lifted. Some gusts do have to grab me strong to the handlebar to avoid falling. The wind shakes me and while I walk between the Blizzard, the darkness and my doubts, the insidious returns to my mind: why do this? Sometimes, I hear as a lament I have the feeling that I follow, but again the head and I don’t see anyone: just darkness.
I pay attention. Yes; It is the wind that is tuned and muge on the trees of the forest; as if you speak all at once. It seems a murmur of conversations that intersect. I hear, but I can not understand what they say. Time passes and solitude weighs on my heart as death, but I continue. Is already too late; the Sun has set long ago and the day goes as it concludes all, so unexpected, strange. Now, everything boils down to follow. Move forward through the night and cold, of the solitude and silence aterido.
Further, without losing the hope of reaching somewhere. Advance without losing thrust; convinced that all this effort is good for something. Also resist, because there is a time for everything that is important, but sometimes, what matters is to understand that everything boils down to resist. To have the strength and courage to resist as necessary. The wind raging and the forest is filled with groans; their cries I reach from the darkness from which I fled. My bike suggests that they are the voices of those who no longer have voice, the voices of those who were never heard of arrebatados in life, which now come together and tell him everything that is passed, its regret and its message. Everything that could have been. – But what is its history and which message is referred to? -I ask my bike. -That we will have to find out answers. The wind is blowing stronger than ever. A branch is disjointed from a tree and collapses, almost without a sound. I startled and miro, just behind her, emerging from the water of the River, I contemplate the remains of a forgotten part of the last bunker war we suffered. Angel steps original author and source of the article.