I will let the flower wither in my hand, to enjoy its beauty while it exists, I will not try to stop either the laughter or the crying, to feel that I have lived it. Let it be ashes and let the wind take it, just as nothing is everlasting, it is better that the flower should wither in my hand than between the leaves of my notebook. I catch time like a flower in a notebook, everything stops and the clock becomes stiff and obedient, under the spell of never seeing you again.
The years go by, the days go by, the years get tired in infinite chains, the colors and the perfume are forgotten and now no memory has life.
Why transform this notebook into a prison, to preserve this flower day by day.
And then one day, casually, when you turn the pages, you appear and break the spell of the eternal never to see you again and return as a traveler to visit me, between shadows and forgetting to punish me with the worst of punishments, which is the I forget because I do not catch anything in those leaves, wanting to deceive nature with the false certainty that nothing happened. And I still have you but you are paused, now the flower is immortal because of me it does not value neither the color nor the aroma, it has become false.
Only that beauty remains the stiff silhouette of what has been and punishes me for condemning it by not fulfilling its destiny, now I can not stop wanting it, it controls me the 5 senses there is no longer I want to look at it. Now I will let this new flower wither in my hand to be trapped in a memory book.
