Parc Güell, Barcelona.
There is a place on mind where consciousness flies over gleaming colors. These colors take their hands and start the elevated dance of existence. A place where the stars draw, over the sky, the answer to the questions about the beauty's misteries.
There is a place for the thoughts that calls us to fly over the Mediterranean waters and over the patchs of the olive-trees, to see the geckos beside the lights of the old country houses and the tall palm trees that hold the dome of a sky full of twilights.
There is a red earth that is ours. An earth made of blood, sweat and hope. An earth irrigated by the aches of many mothers, and by some special scents: wine's scent, and scent of ancient cellar, and scent of wet and mown grass. An earth irrigated by the tears of some ancestor that feel happy for the sight of the growing life, in spite the sorrows, the wars and the death.
There is an space that no critical can touch with the tips of the nails. A place beyond the rational reality. The wise critical is silent in front of the art, because the art doesn't walk by plotted routes. The unexpected realities discover never seen oceans; indescribable blue stained oceans.
Suddenly, in the middle of this immense space. The true “I” recognises itself in the outside light. This light explains why we are, and why no matter if the beauty is (or isn't) useful, and why worth breathing, and why we should fear nothing, and why is all so deep and so beautiful.