#fugitivo

Enquanto contemplo as rugas que marcam meu rosto, não posso deixar de refletir sobre as escolhas feitas e não feitas. Ao meu lado, está um amor único, intenso e transformador, que, apesar dos desafios, é uma constante fonte de aprendizado. Meu único filho, uma bússola constante em minha vida, representa uma narrativa entrelaçada de crescimento mútuo, uma história que se desenha a cada sorriso compartilhado.

No entanto, o peso mais profundo recai sobre as coisas que ainda não conquistei. Sonhos acalentados permanecem na penumbra da realização, projetos não materializados e metas não atingidas são sombras persistentes que desafiam minha jornada. A sensação de que o tempo está passando rápido demais para alcançar essas aspirações lança uma sombra de inquietude sobre meu coração.

Em meio a essa introspecção, percebo que o envelhecimento não é apenas uma contagem de anos, mas uma jornada constante de descoberta e aceitação. Cada ruga, cada linha, é um capítulo escrito não apenas pelas vitórias, mas também pelas derrotas e pelas escolhas que ficaram para trás.

Aceitar o amor incondicional que dou e recebo, entender que meu filho é uma expressão viva do tempo e, ao mesmo tempo, abraçar as coisas que ainda não conquistei tornam-se partes inseparáveis do meu presente. Essa reflexão desperta uma nova determinação, uma vontade renovada de perseguir o que ainda está ao meu alcance.

Ao invés de ver o envelhecimento como uma limitação, compreendo que cada dia é uma oportunidade para avançar em direção aos sonhos adiados, cultivar o amor que já faz parte da minha vida e continuar a moldar o destino que, mesmo no presente, está em constante evolução.

FFXIV Write 2020 clinch • noun

a knot used to fasten a rope to a ring or cringle, using a half hitch wit the  end seized back on its own part.

Hangman, Hangman’s got his rope Outlaw ‘s runnin’ ain’t got no hope. Ties the loop off with a clinch Wrap your neck and make it cinch

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He’d gotten used to traveling by night.

There was no moon to guide him, just a thousand back-lit pinpricks of dim light filtering through the bruised sky, but it was enough for him to navigate through the bramble patches and low hanging mesquite branches of Wellwick. He only ever took back roads, and avoided most towns these days  when he could help it. 

When he did risk the eyes of the public it was only ever to grab much needed supplies, or to curb the yearning of a soft bed and it was only ever private venues he kept to. The places most likely to entertain degens with lacking morals and vagrant wanderers like him. Places where those with higher standings would be hard-pressed to admit seeing him at, lest they wanted to confess their own involvement with such establishments. 

Even still, he kept his head and hat low, and all the while with civil company did he feel the cross-hairs narrowing on his back, square between the shoulder blades where he was sure a bullet would make its home one day. Of course he longed for honest company and a good conversation, but these days, honest company might turn him in with a quickness if a stranger caught wind of the wrong rumor. Hell, he wasn’t even honest company these days.

So he didn’t bother with either and maintained a lonely vigil, always alert, and always on the move. 

The hoot of a great owl pierced that bubble of thought and he warily turned towards the source - a large, tawny cloudkin with big, bushy, hornlike brows that puffed, speckled feathers. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt as if it were watching him. Two intelligent, angry, lantern orange rings framed by black circles peered back at him with an intensity that unsettled the cowboy easily, and with more familiarity than he liked. 

With a fugitive’s assertion, he squeezed his heels into his horse’s side to urge the painted equis on a bit faster down the trail. Pebbles and rocks skittered beneath cloven hooves in their haste, taking them down a worn dirt hill in a cloud of dust and out of the watchful bird’s sight. He felt more capable of proper breathing then, releasing his lung-filled capacity without realizing he’d been holding it in at all and leaned forward to pat his steadfast beast. .

It became precarious by this point, but  the trail was a familiar one to him. Uneven rocks and short ledges that hugged the cliff might have been a challenge for less adept riders, and less agile steeds but both Outlaw and horse had  confidence in their surroundings. Deep down into the canyon, he began to angle his way to lower plateaus and in the distance, the burning wall’s amber peaks created a jagged horizon. In the day time, it made the horizon burn as if on fire but at night, they were simply rocks. Colorful, but cold and lifeless. 

As he stared, a strong gale passed and then he heard them -- voices, an odd thing really for where he was and movement, like shuffling feet. This wasn’t a route for the well intentioned, but a back path for the devils and vagrants of the land. Fugitives, smugglers and worse were what occupied these hard-to-reach, harder-to-navigate trails. He immediately pulled his steed into an agile halt, the creature’s hooves padded to reduce his sound while traveling.

Carefully, he climbed down and landed in a crouch, leading his beast towards the inside of the cliff to tie his lead and move forward on his own. As he did, the voices grew louder and he could hear the sounds of people just up ahead. He continued forward under cover until he could see over the edge, to the plateau of rocks below and the sight he was witness to was a disturbing one. 

A small carriage had been overturned. The bird pulling it had been riddled full of arrows and lay dying on its side while the lone passenger was physically dragged from the wreckage by what looked to be a pair of brothers. Almost identical, they had the same features, he noted, the same kind of look of deep, crimson locks and beady eyes. One  was lean like a jackal with his hair slicked back, and the other had packed on a few ponze of beefy muscle. His nose was broken too, where the skinnier seemed the more handsome of the pair. 

They were the farthest thing from benevolent saviors though. Both had the same blood thirsty grins, the same flicker of cruelty in their eyes. The look of a dingo got before it feasted on a baby.

Laughing. as they strung the smuggler up from the bough of an old sycamore tree...

Solo quien ama vuela. Pero ¿quién ama tanto sea como el pájaro más leve y fugitivo? Hundiendo va este odio reinante todo cuanto quisiera remontarse directamente vivo. Miguel Hernández † 28 de marzo de 1942