Anthesis of Sadness

In the heart of that suspended wandering, of that drift with no shore and no compass, as my steps no longer answered to anything but the weariness of being, I saw it.

Not an illusion. Not a mental projection or a psychic escape. No.

I truly saw it.

It was there, in front of me, tangible in its mute beauty, with a presence too calm to be real, a peace almost offensive: a field.

An immense field, without edge, suspended in the void like a forgotten promise, an island of respite condemned to float for eternity in a world with no sky.

But it was not made of earth.

It wasn’t composed of soil, nor of rock, nor of raw matter — no, nothing I knew.

This field... it seemed woven. Woven into absence itself, into the very breath of dream.

Millions of strands, vegetal but unreal, threadlike and delicate, rose in slow undulations, of such a pale green that it became almost transparent, diaphanous, bathed in inner light.

They vibrated slightly, but without wind. As if the air hadn’t dared touch them, or perhaps they obeyed a different rhythm — older, more intimate, slower. A rhythm of memory.

Each filament evoked a living silk, a matter born of forgotten memories, a substance gently swaying before my eyes, fragile and sacred like a field of abandoned memories waiting for nothing, except perhaps... to be brushed.