I always try to escape at the celebration of epic adventures and I am rather indifferent to the heroics of those who resist the stormy life unscathed. In the storm, in its roar, its tragedies and its risks, through times of inevitable defeat, that is not 'just die or break up, even a wreck can' become a lifeboat to be reborn.
When the sea chase so 'strong blue color in all its white foam and when salt runs with the clouds and get to dull the windows, every time, the instinct to leave the house becomes irresistible. In those dire moves me a force equal to, and pushes me to run on a pier, to climb a cliff or upwind along a ridge like the deck of a ship in the waves. And up there 'with the wind whistling in your ears and gusts that push the pace, rest and watch from my seat in the front row piéce more' exciting of all the shows of the sea.
In stormy sea seems to melt the cry of the soul, the more 'experienced and perhaps the most' vital. In the vortex of the storm, in those storms at sea that burst in on certain days of life, break the banks of the conveniences, you lose the cardinal points, salvation is confused between the illusory lights of the mainland, but when more 'black and dark while the SOS wanders through the clouds of ether, coming from afar a lifesaver unexpected. The grab all'orizzonde looking at the sky and bursts in the night following your beacon illuminating. The absolute chaos of the storm 'for the sea is a supreme moment of rebellion and liberation. And though the stormy lives are often impractical, in the tumult of energy there is 'something that fascinates most' of a fiery red sunset.
those are the lives of those who live each day as the only, who Immersed in the beauty of the waves also heard a constant premonition of disaster. Yet, he manages to express himself only in the flow swirling, ceaseless motion as if that was the only transitional and talk to him about life.
But a sailor never deliberately chooses not to meet the storm, if the flies can ', the face if there is in the middle and over only if he puts together the strength to look into her eyes. In that encounter fleeting and cruel just grabs a terrifying fear of vertigo in the memory of a future day perhaps become 'a kind of intoxication. Only when there are memories and the storm 'turned into a wreck, the dive into a world that does not suffer and can not hear, but that does not fight and does not live.
I fear the storm just offshore, but I look at it from the ground with the same rapture that gives me 'a painting expressionist. Where there are no more 'contours and shapes and symmetries, but only deep' who invent a voice and want to talk to you. That painting has a different message for everyone, a message loud and clear, but hovering over everything. The asolti accordance with laid bare his heart and lifted by the winds: and 'the endless echo of a sound that takes your breath away and gives it to the wind.
(Valeria Serra, The words of the sea )
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