As a note:
We can see the rosy world in childhood, where suitable conditions make everything simple. Every thought is pink, like an instrument. Faith in a future, hope with the certainty of health, and you cross the street with less fear, and many times buy a rare fruit to taste, enjoying the air, running behind a ball with friends, a piano installed at home, warm water on a bathtub, food three times daily, a bed, and the right to dream. On some occasions, we find gray clouds. We left something, the memory of what we were and who we are, losing tune. We need protective rays, a ray of sunshine in our eyes, and understand that the dog must bark anytime to warn us of the dangers that life shows — childhood is alive in our hands, our affective memory.
Once upon a time, there was a dog and a man. The man was dragging a wagon, and in the wagon had a piano, the piano covered with gross tarpaulin. They followed a path into mountains surrounded by forest. Far away from sunrise was a country behind those quiet rocks, and from that hill, a little more beyond these statical stones lying on the grass reading sky and gossiping in the wind. From there came this dog and this man. Drawing a wagon takes work. You now imagine having a piano inside it, a weighted instrument of that size, and having to drag it night and day in that condition.
It is hard work, and he was doing it, insistent on each step. It was not easy alone. The dog Ray followed him, sometimes barking against its fear of the unknown.
Long journey to the top. Till now, it has been tiring, but a reason to do it is strengths coming from memory. This man seems to dream but lives a nightmare in that crossing. He dragged a wagon with a piano and a dog in a threatening jungle. Maybe a force not declared, something hidden helps him. Kayke had an aim, a horizon to reach, a trail to follow, a place to arrive, and some motive to do it.
The forest is green and dark at that time, the weather changes, the scenery is always different, the path turns into curves and abysses, and what can be glimpsed, seen, felt, and thought about in each instant is different. The same can happen with those lazy stones. Those over there seem to have fallen on the horizon line. Rock with the hard skin, all is hard, strong, and imposing, and she also crumbles as life deposes. It will not be the same with time; one day, it will end - now they are becoming sand.
The rocks are losing a little of their mass, their form losing very little, invisible to our eyes. There will be dunes along the four horizons thousands of years from now.
Sometimes, when clouds go there, the north can be seen; they are closed mountains and frozen hills, and other times, from the other side, a breath smell comes from a green forest, bringing memories of a soft warmth from childhood. He remembers dragging a wagon without music when climbing this dangerous valley.
The piano sound walks in his mind, comes from where the past slept, it distant from seas well beyond, far away from here, of these lakes surrounded by wood, away here from where I can hear the fierce water chains running, so far that little we can hearing the incredible tinkle sing of birds, and feel the cold south. This music does not show what exists beyond those bright, rosy skies that cover all circles of the mountain where someone can hear and understand about useless efforts that are done to drag a world of happens that comes from so far. Kayke gave up on an internal struggle to pull a piano, a feeling, an intent in exchange for the work he so calmly executes.
It is like being surrounded by dangerous ghosts in muddy terrain, and we show our defense against the bad with our values and do not desist from our will to overcome all fears, difficulties, and sufferings. The face stretched, the feet planted on the ground like a lever, walking at a pace of force and determination to a tragic trail. Ray follows him, barking, sometimes hiding from wilder shadows and fierce animals. Kayke is always angry, dripping sweat, murmuring something indecipherable with a look hard, and, on the same scale, sinking in the muddies holes, slipping and sometimes falling. It forces him to crawl, get on his knees, get up off smooth stones, and continue forward. Kayke almost does not rest going ahead without ever looking behind.
A clearing into the forest is a sweet new opportunity that needs to stop to rest. There is no other way to pull over the wagon. The rain ceases, a soft wind comes with its whisper, and a wild animal crosses beside him. Ray knows without seeing. He notices a strange smell lights up and barks around. A light descends from the tree and seems alive.
Ray calls it Kayke, sits down, and leans against a tree, closing his eyes in dreaming as he can hear music.
Ray ran down the wagon, hid there, noticed something, and tried to warn it that now dreams and a specter of pink lights densified around him, covering him like soft duvet clouds. After two hours or less, in a profound sleep, Kayke opened his eyes, stretching and trying to stand up, and rolled to one side and another until he felt and saw the pink light around him. It was light or strawberry milk frappes dripping from the tops of trees.
The lights jump and float in the air and wink at him. They were looking at exclaimed: by these ears which go to heaven! The dog barked and leaped, running to reach the pink light. Kayke recovered like he had done anything the first time he laughed while running with Ray. He was restful and ready to do what needed doing. Ray is still running and barking. In a whisper, he came to lunch. They take his sandwich, and the lights dancing, thought: What by God is this? It could not be different. Kayke makes some conjectures. It was sunlight reflecting a halo and gave an impression of being from another world while cleaning the dishes and preparing to follow travel. They were the Pink Indians tribe - and materialized in front of them with luminous faces. He felt his body shivering and pretended not to be anything. It is nothing, a reflection only.
Ray thinks Kayke speaks to himself. The rosy people came from the shadows: What are you doing? Sitting beside Kayke, Ray replied for the Pinks: What do you think I do? He dominated them of Indians from the Pink race, and fears and uncertainties dissipated. He believed that naming people and things was a mode of correction; thinking would have a concept or name, and it would all be resolved.
A Pink asked him why he dragged that wagon when he could levitate it. He does not know what to explain to the Pink Indians, but he tries to explain it. Ray sees anything but hears something. Be quiet! Ray. Said Kayke. Beautiful name. He is different from you. Do not say! Said Kayke to the pink people. Ray is not like you, - said him. Kayke said: Do not make me laugh. Ray is the intelligence I do not have. Why do you walk if you can fly? He thought how complicated it was for those ignorant, rosy people to understand that he could not know how to do these things, could drag the wagon, but had no wings and was not light. Note this: I do not have wings and showed the back. Look around; do not have wings. Kayke was rude. He changed his thinking about the tall, Pink, rosy tribe, "They are only different. Sorry to have thought so! The Pinks even read thoughts and laugh with extreme brightness.
Rosy lights were something that he did not understand. What could be that light that speaks, levitates, takes form, flies, and reads thoughts? People from other planets? A Pink came and told him they belonged from a fire memory. They levitated the piano and played music. The piano flew between the trees of the forest. Please! Put the piano on the wagon, please! The piano returned to the wagon. Well, you can fly together with Ray. They flew to the top of the trees and fell, and before it could wound, sustained by a force that levitated them, came slowly to the ground.
Anyone can fly and levitate what they want. As is it? If fewer metal weights would be jingled in your pocket if you were not so greedy, you could be like us, so light and strong we can fly. Ray looks at him like he knows what happened and growls. Kayke was living in another world. The concerned dog again barked and showed its tongue. Kayke continued speaking with those rosy people. I must be dreaming and crazy to talk with strangers. Never in my land do we talk with someone we do not know.
The simple life explains that one is one, two are two, and three is the wisdom tree, and I do not know what could be more than that, and lay down on the bush near a tree where The Pink tribe involved the tree with their light. You can get out before me; I have more to do. For me, you do not exist. The Pinkles did not laugh at him, only advised about the dangerous Clouds people that would meet on the pathway. They take the bushes and green grass path and go away. Goodbye, fires spirit, said Kayke and barked Ray. Goodbye spirits from the fire, said Kayke and barked Ray.
The dog had a philosophy in mind, a magnificence, to do anything with joy, doing whatever without claiming anything. Ray, in some sense, was a simple soul who enjoyed life from manners that had to be. It was trying to give Kayke a revelation. Kayke does not imagine Ray could know more about Pink Society, maybe learn to float in the air, appear and disappear how much it wants, do levitation, and live off sunlight, transforming in light too. But he had a compromise to help Kayke with his obsession with dragging the piano.
What moved his thinking was an internal feeling, a sensation to do something valuable, leading the piano beyond the desert to a continent where he could recuperate his hope. They trekked through a mud trail, crossed rivers, trodden in the sand along the beach shore, and returned to the forest to climb hills until they could not see anything ahead, surrounded by gray clouds, dense, humid, and weighted. It was impossible to take a step.
Ray and Kayke stopped. A gray shadow came, and Ray felt some fear. Kayke started to say something in his language, but no one could understand him. He speaks speedily in a guttural voice, like an old machine sound of sewing wear. The clouds were like giant walls; they seemed like rocks, and Kayke screamed in a firm voice, did not have anyone say anything. The vote was into a tiny whistle, like those birds that live on the heights near stars - like that. A bird that whistled equals a bullet train. Ray was worried about Kayke. Every day was different and somewhat complicated. It decided not to bark, hid under the wrapped piano, stood silently, and noticed the clouds moving. Ray does not resist and barks at Kayke. He was still whistling for clouds to know what was there.
If we could translate what Rau was saying, we could say: Kayke, get out of danger. Came down the wagon, now! The terrible screaming from Kayke crossed the air and reached all the clouds that turned dark, and like what happens with those that do not import in to threaten the unknown, Kayke had a surprise, Kayke had a surprise. The clouds came low, and a dense mist hit him; a pointed and thin stick hit him. Kayke tried to defend himself but fell.
The clouds moved upon him, and harder, those clouds attacked him. A buzzing in the air hit him, and he felt a nudge. So he stopped: What happened? Kayke feels like clouds of snails climbing his legs and biting his skin. Oh, what is this? - he screamed and entered a hole in the ground, sufficient to protect it from that strange animal. Look at me, please. I do not have anything, only my life. Please do not bite me. What do you want? A tenebrous voice emerged from a smoke. Kayke did not believe it.
A ridiculous ask came from a choral hide voice oily: We want you to play the piano piece of happy music, a simple thing. Whether you play that instrument, we leave you to go. Only we want this; we have never heard a perfect song. We are untuned people; if we try to sing, thunder comes out, lightning too. Kayke thought: I am dreaming, or I am having a hallucination. Is it not enough to have found the rosy people before? Now that. Kayke needs to remember a song or something. Ray barked in a cadence, so, he thought.
Trying to return to his childhood, searching behind a forgotten world, Kayke had sparks of memory. As a child, I played with friends and ran on the street. My father was a carpenter, and he sang while doing his work. My mom sang to me before I went to sleep, and in the morning, she woke me by singing the dawn song. On my birthday, they sing a time song. Ray barked with a rapid rhythm and came to Kayke's head with music. He opened the wagon, climbed on, untied the tarp that hid the piano and disclosed that he took the bench, sat there, and played the gray cloud the song of the rain, dog beside him on the mat.
Kayke, due Ray to sit beside him barking in cadence, could remember the first note like it was:
A natural Do to mi-sharp; La and seventh in Do again with a transference followed, and the right hand accompanied the left hand with a variation in three times to four. The cloud lightning with low thunder and the rain melt in the air into a gray world. The piano song drove away all misty fog, the sun rays invaded the atmosphere, and it was possible to see the horizon, the sea so far brightening at the end of the day, and stars beginning to colonize the sky. It Is not easy to drag a piano in a wagon across a forest on a road that seems more like a trail. Kayke's memory was recuperated, remembering living around Nídia on a rocky hill called Krisia.
The pianist had created a mist of pink light, dragging a piano with his hand for a misty of joy. Pink and gray were the colors that moved his feelings from affective memory that involved him and transformed the sadness into a happy mind, free to create and be the musician he was. Since then, it has dragged the piano to lead beyond the forest, crossing the desert to come out where the freedom of being who he is could be possible: I change too, he thought, like a stone losing its mass. Said Ray: He became another himself. A pink world of impossible happens, and a mist of weight clouds always comes. If we know some song, we change the ugly aspect or bad aspects of our surprises. He followed his life and heard the applause from his heart.
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