Once in a while, only once in a while, I go out looking for someone, someone with whom I can talk to;

someone to look at in silence, argue with or admire. A person that allows me to understand my soul and vice versa, a person who can look me in the eyes and say with no bones about it; “It is totally impossible to define all of the colors I see in your eyes!” Oh, yes, yes! It would be so touching. Could this possibly happen to me someday? I am so sad and going through a terrible spell! I would love to be able to blow and make my problems go away. Lately, my flute cries every time I play it and I end up drenched by musical tears. It is tricky, tremendously tricky. That’s why I don’t play anymore. That and a terrible laziness that has come to live with me and I can’t seem to shake. Enjoying my misgivings, I saw what appeared to be a trumpet player, (why, if not, would she be carrying the instrument?) walking up the hill that wanted to be green but couldn’t, its’ grass had died. On the very top, I could see how she imagined herself. Majestically! Not everyone is able to do that. I mentally applauded her. “Had she spent weeks making her notes shine like I had?” I wondered, “Would she put special emphasis in rubbing them with tension until they became clean like, (if it is comparable) a crystal ball on a Christmas tree? Would she then cuddle them in her arms and later drink them so that they would penetrate the most intimate parts of her soul and then expand her lungs and come streaming out of her trumpet?” After ending the interrogation in my mind, she began to play. A bubble came out of the bell and I heard it say: “Boring!” it exclaimed as though surprised, “The same old thing, over and over again! I must be the worst trumpet player in the whole world. Do and Mi are not the same notes as those shiny notes I drank; at least they aren’t acting like they should. How strange and very curious they are!” (She moved her head as though she was talking but wasn’t). “So then what…?” “Nothingnesses!” I replied as I threw my flute to the ground. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Nothingnesses, pure and simple nothingnesses. Yes, yes. Don’t look at me that way, as though you don’t know what I’m talking about… Does it surprise you that my Mi is Re and Fa is Do? Lately it happens to me all the time!” “I make music, or at least I try, and that is basically all there is to it. If my notes want to transform themselves, then let them. We are all butterflies…but at least they could warn me!” “Oh, butterflies!” I said. “And who might you be to criticize my music?” she asked when she realized I was a total stranger. “Please excuse my audacity. It is true. I am no one to judge your music. But curiosity got the best of me when you said you were the worst trumpet player in the world after a soap bubble came out of your horn.” Achoo! (I sneezed). “Bless you.” “Thanks.” “Yes, that’s the problem. These blasted bubbles that come out of this bloody trumpet. I’m going through a spell where all that comes out of this thing are,” as she looked at it with scorn, “bubbles! Everyone laughs at me.” “They laugh?” “Yes and don’t you dare!” She picked up the horn and began to play with sweetness but, just as she had predicted, no music came out, only bubbles, hundreds and hundreds of little bubbles that, when they popped, emitted strange musical notes unknown to my well trained and refined ear. “Those bubbles are very pretty. Too bad they don’t float around forever!” I said as I watched them zigzag in the air. “Yes, they are, but my music…” “It has transformed. Don’t you remember we are all butterflies? You said it yourself!” She smiled, kindly. She looked at me and I could have sworn to see her, for just and instant, drawing a small part of my being. With a certain air of confidence seeing that her music wasn’t making me laugh but, on the contrary, was fascinating me, I sat down cross legged and said in a distracted manner, “Play, please play. I want to

dream with this bubble music, so new to my ears and to the world. It tells a magical story, splendid!” The trumpet player accepted and began to play. She didn’t seem to be ashamed and she gave me a glimpse of her butterfly wings. The bubbles came out of her shiny horn. They were different sizes and sometimes shapes, (you had to have a keen eyes to see them). The music inside told a story that would be interpreted when the bubbles burst: at random, of course. The first bubble came to me and popped a few inches from my nose and this is what I heard, a tune without lyrics, but telling this story: “Where does one go when one loses a friend?” asked a young girl crying. “Where does one go…?” Gather all of the angels together; it is very urgent!” Seeing her play with so much feeling gave me the shivers. It was so real… another bubble burst: “Dance! Dance! That will bring your creepy angels!” shouted a dark and evil voice, laughing. And the girl danced within her tears. She danced, even knowing that this voice could know the truth. “Enough! What a sad and melancholic tale!” I exclaimed as a musical note in the shape of a tear headed for my cheek.” It was so cruel that the voice laughed at you dreams!” She looked at me sadly feeling deceived by her simplicity, and hid her wings. The last bubble hesitated, brushed against us, first her and then me, and placing itself between the paths of our gaze, popped. Imagine that they all came, all, all, all of the angels and that their little feet don’t touch the ground as they dance… In the end, that should be all, all, all of the angels. What a powerful sentiment! And the dark voice became furious. Then a terrible scream was heard. “Oh!” she sighed.

“Oh!” I said, “Now what? What will happen to her?” “I don’t know! I don’t know!” “Play, Play! That voice must belong to a pitiless monster!” Perturbed, the trumpet played blew heavily into the mouthpiece, blowing up her cheeks to such an extreme that, if she didn’t have the trumpet, you would believe she had two enormous ostrich eggs in her mouth. Only one bubble came out of the bell and it began to grow. It was dark and on the inside there was dark, dense smoke. Soon a pair of evil eyes could be seen, only to vanish again. And then she began to be suctioned by the bubble, the monster, who knows? From the inside of the dark orb, the trumpet player was absorbed through the mouthpiece of the instrument until she disappeared completely. The trumpet fell to the ground and the gigantic balloon began to slowly ascend. “What happened? Trumpet player? Where are you?” An uncontrollable sensation of anguish came over me when I realized that my unknown friend had disappeared because of my command! I could hear her shouting, “Help! Mysterious Flute Player, help me!” Without thinking, (and never having played the trumpet), I picked up the instrument and blew and blew and blew. The same thing happened to me. What a terrible feeling being suctioned! I ended up on the inside of another bubble that slowly drew nearer to the dark one. When they touched they fused into one. Once inside and surrounded by darkness, I searched for her. When I found her I embraced and hugged her there in the shadows, encompassed by perverse laughter and whispered in her frightened ear, “Do you know something, Trumpet Player? This morning I went out to find someone, because I felt lonely. Yes, I found you!” She knew very well that very soon we would disappear (what do bubbles do when they pop?) and turn into millions of micro-particles. She said to me, “What difference does it make that your flute cries? Now at last I have found you and I can’t find the words to thank you for coming to find me, without even knowing me, without questioning. Hold me tightly, I’m afraid.” As her thin arms embraced my body she asked, “Do you remember the next-to-the-last bubble that crossed in front of our gaze when we were looking at each other?” “Yes.”

“I could see all of the colors that there are in your eyes.” I clung to her and taking a deep breath I kissed her, we became one and disappeared.

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