Colours

Colours
Patrizia Barrera

Patrizia Barrera

Colours

Voices of the soul

RHA PRODUCTION

Patrizia Barrera 2020 All Right Reserved..

PREFACE

Colours, voices of the soul

I wrote the book without thinking about it, but literally listening to the voices that came out from the deep of my heart, from something impalpable and absorbed that I defined my Soul. They are voices, reflections and timeless stories, born in a remote place which is fantasy but that come from my human and psychical experiences. Each story is highlighted by a colour and a picture, to offer you a global and archetypal experience. They are intuitive stories, not very logical, but almost surreal.

Reading these stories is like opening a window on a collective spiritual world, which is in every one of us.

I hope that they can give you a moment of break and reflection with their chorus of memories by touching colours, which is an incomparable heritage of our existence.

PATRIZIA BARRERA

Water

.

I am the water who murmurs in the valleys,

who touches the lawn with her dewy hands.

And I am the water who thickly falls from the sky,

who gently masses in the dark hollow of trees.

Water from snowy peaks,

rough and dark water who dryly rains on flowers.

Wherever you are

And whoever I am

I’ll always be water

The flaming and bitter drops

were born

from your love for me.

COLOURS

Blue

It was in that summer that I became his wife. I still remember the apple trees that looked out over the fields like celebrating soldiers and the long walkway that separated us from the woods. There was our house, and that's where it happened.

I was young and lost in that voices noise, and in that whirlwind of colours that preceded the sunset: but I felt the night as a friend and I wished that she would come, that my still intact bridal bed would have dressed in pink and would have welcomed me in a nest, as it happens with an eaglet without plumes. I wore his sculpted face in my eyes: his high forehead, his strong gaze, his turgid lips. And then his hands. Those tireless and curious hands that knew how to imprison the world in a painting, forcing the day to appear night, turning elderly into youth. Those tender hands that knew how to cry. My life and his hands: for me that was the whole universe. It went like this for a year, long days of walking in the woods and his paintings, my glances at the river and its colours. The nature was confined there, imprisoned. That was the cherry tree that died in winter and still was continuing to live, and those were the fires of the night when we used to dance in the hills. And the unexpressed desires, the suffered emotions, everything was confused in the moment when the brush widened to discover or hide something. Sometimes he would have painted for hours. Then, as if he woke up, he looked around and watched me, and only then I know that night came down. He took me and we loved each other. His hands still drew on my body and there were no feelings in him. There were only ghosts, only colours. I didn't understand. However, it was beautiful: his magical interest in my hair, in my breasts. He looked at me, and after all, I was his wife. He told me about his confused soul, about those repressed feelings that every night came back to haunt him, about the plans for the new paintings. While he was speaking, he fell asleep, as if he was deeply tired. I don't know why, but I didn't want him to sleep. I felt like I was falling back into the darkness and couldn’t see the end. His paintings kept me company, and when I realised it, I decided I shouldn't had lost them. I swore it to myself and finally I’ve realised; now I am the colour myself.

Sometimes he would leave to exhibit his paintings and I would have been alone; then I wandered around restlessly, not knowing what to do, in my endless days. I used to write to my mother, or go to the lake, or sleep, and stop everything without finishing anything, in distress. I looked at the empty walls, the bare canvases, the brushes on the fireplace, abandoned, without anyone to give them life. It was as if the whole world disappeared from my eyes, only crumbs were left of the dreamed universe. Everything had been stolen from me, his paintings were sold to strangers who didn't know they were buying my soul with them. I felt looted and betrayed, I had seen the birth of a child and I could not keep it.

Then he would return, along with his magic. From those hands a rose was born, a ray of sunshine or even darkness. Out of nothing appeared angels with pure and innocent faces or unhappy children in the wombs of undone women; and bodies brushed, swollen chalices, scenes of madness, of joy, of love. Looking at those faces I realised that I had already seen them inside of me and, touching those canvases, I expected everything to return to me. The fear of losing them again assailed me, languid and fierce: what was the meaning of creating and not enjoying that life? I watched him as he invented new colours and an inconsolable despair was born in me. Powerless, in front of him I thought that if nothing can be preserved, then, it is better to destroy it.

Slowly a treacherous snake crept into my heart, and the Creator whom I thought I was admiring, turned into a tyrant who was insensitive to the feelings of pity that inspired my creatures. I withdrew to his embraces and gave him nothing more, sinking into that bitter loneliness that welcomes dead souls. He looked at me as if he could not see me, and now I know that he was suffering; perhaps he was taken by a choice, by that atrocious doubt that later killed me. Now I understand that he was pining away without knowing how to choose between the woman and her colours.

A new summer came, and nothing had changed, but one day he didn't paint and joined me in the woods: he seemed prostrated by something he couldn't resist, and deeply tired. I found a tenderness and we loved each other as we had never done before, putting aside our complexes and inhibitions, happy to be simply ourselves. In the end he seemed relieved, as if he finally understood what he had to do. We returned back and he took back the colours as well, but this time he had a new subject: me. For hours I remained motionless looking at his agile hands on the canvas, fast and cunning between the brushes as if they had no other nourishment than this. The day went out and he was still bent over the painting: the woman portrayed was laughing, eternally happy in her eternal youth. Looking at her was no longer me. Behind her a half-open door was giving me a sign to enter, and I wondered what could be behind it so secret that I could not see it. Again, that wretched sadness took me, and I could not escape it; and from sadness it became languor, and then madness. Would I have lost myself again, and never be able to find myself again? And who would have bought me this time? My soul was in the picture, and I could not defend it from the eyes of others. He stood up and kissed me for a long time: did he know I was leaving?

That night I couldn't sleep. My dreams were strange calls from worlds lost in time. Then I realised that it was the painted door that was calling me. I ran into the garden and the painting moved. The door was now open and was showing a black abyss of shadows and, in the background, colours. I jumped in and couldn't get out anymore: like the captive nature I had been sculpted in the canvas, and I was dead.

Since that day he hasn't painted any more paintings and hasn't sold any, because he doesn't know where my soul took refuge: and since then the trees are grey and the faces of the Angels have disappeared like smoke. He can't recognize the light from the night, and he can' t distinguish fire from water. And I can no longer tell him, now, because I am behind the door, where he could never see me again. Now I cry, feeling miserable in my human weakness.

Everything is over. And I no longer have a voice to confess that I stole his colours from him...

THE DEVIL'S MUSIC

RED

They said that music was composed by the devil.

Rumours, jokes, superstitions? But he played that music several times and never saw the devil. And he certainly, he knew how it was like, with those sharp horns, the swaggering air and the black hat, as it usually appears, and then it's scary because you feel his warm breath on you. But as he didn't feel fear, on the contrary, the music seemed to lift him up high where the devil, as they say, shouldn't be. And each time a deep peace descended in his heart, which no earthly thing is able to give. It was that love for the universe that was beating in his chest, when he played, that spurred him on to continue to do so, that strange satisfaction of the senses. And then he felt good, or rather eager to do good, even if goodness bored him as much as evil, and every time he ended up folding back on himself and he didn’t care about those feelings.

So, every day: satisfied of himself and then unhappy, longing to concentrate on those notes and then tired of them. And then there was that strange nausea for people and for himself, after playing, that he didn't understand but couldn't help but wanting it. In the end he got used to that too and didn't pay attention to it anymore, considering it as a small price to pay to enjoy a precious gift.

"The devil? He doesn't exist! "- he said, using his own happiness as proof. "I have never stolen or hurt anyone, and I am happy. So, the devil no longer drags to perdition the mortals who enjoy his companions and limbs? Then, if so, welcome devil! "

And he caressed the chin of his young wife with a heavy, pregnant belly, a sign that the child was healthy and growing well, yet another sign of divine blessing. But the woman died in the spring giving birth to that child. But to say this is not even correct, because the child remained locked in her dead mother's womb until a disconcerting lament forced someone to take her out with an unexpected Caesarean section. Her eyes were open, and she was alive. And then everyone thought there was something evil about it, and that those signs were bad. And when it finally turned out that the strange creature didn't speak, even though it could, and that it just looked at the world with detached and angry eyes, then everyone left them all alone, and the father and his daughter lived alone all the years of their lives.

In the end they disappeared, as if they swallowed up out of nowhere, and everyone said that it was the devil who asked for the reward of their souls. But I know how it went, because I was the only one who decided to mingle with their misfortune, driven by a feeling of pity for that poor creature who grew up out of nowhere, and to whom I myself could only bring a little food. What happened still frightens me, but I'm old now and I'm not given to fear anything but death. So, my friends, listen to my poor chatter and then forget it. There have been so many words already.

So, he kept playing that music, and sinking day after day into the oblivion. Playing it, he found peace, deluding himself that he was no longer himself and escaping from that hopeless reality. Nothing interested him except that music: and when he realised that he could no longer do without it, even though he hated it, he began to hate himself because he hated it. He couldn't do anything anymore: and watching his daughter melting like a candle as well, even though she was healthy, and she didn't speak a word.

"Damn this music! "He blasphemed to himself. And every day he vowed never to touch her again, knowing that he would not hesitate a moment later to pick up the instruments to do so. And every time those sounds went up to the sky in a magical enchantment on his body, shadows of exhaustion were drawn, that dark spot that every day took more form and became clearer, until it exploded with its horrible appearance and he could no longer avoid seeing it. That hairy paw was born on his chest and it was the sign of the devil, who he had never feared and still was not yet afraid but full of horrors and deceit. There was no escape: that music was the covenant of blood that had sucked his soul and that had granted it as a gift to the dark Lord. He had now touched it and held it in his hand, feeding on its pride and lack of faith. And the contagion passed from man to man through the sounds of that music that stimulates the senses towards the sin that cannot be committed, but which, in your heart, is precisely why you have already committed it. A silent plague that every creature brings to another, repeating the cycle endlessly. Then he wondered how many massacres he had committed, bringing that music into the world. How many other sins were waiting to explode, how many more sins were spinning in the air waiting to be caught? He had been blind but now he saw and understood that this music had to be destroyed immediately, because if there was still a chance of salvation that would prevent men from following his own path it depended only on him. He raised his arms to take the score... but he couldn't. That music still spoke to him and enchanted him, playing an easy game against the will of the victorious man. He understood in a moment that he did not want to destroy it at all, but on the contrary, to play it, because there is no stronger temptation for the human being than that of dragging his brother to perdition.

"You must burn it" - whispered a voice behind him at that moment.

It was that mute daughter's voice who was now speaking, and she stood straight before him, pale and suffering in the face and trembling all over.

"You must burn it" - she repeated, uncovering a breast. There, too, the spot had taken shape.