There are parallel worlds, alternative realities that are only discovered in the dream. There are short messages that we receive without knowing why we were the chosen ones. It's not the first time I've dreamed of the moon. Last night it was like a giant metal globe, menacing and splendid at the same time. It was floating between some rocks, but I knew it could roll at any moment towards me, just as I dreamed on another night that it was the real moon, massive, bright, coming going down the valley towards us. There was a group of people around unknown to me, but we were all running in the same direction because no matter how much you were fascinated by what terrifies you at the same time, you're still going to want to run away. In isolation, the walls of our house press differently. Thoughts can't come out; they can't find a way out of our lives. They come back faster than you'd expect, they bump into you around the house, they start scratching, hurting. Every blade of ray glimpsed through the open windows becomes your best-known detail beyond, from the reality that you can still walk without the fear of a statement in your throat. Declare what? You get your thoughts in order; you prepare your speech. I mean, you could tell people, in case they ask you what you dreamt last night. To say to them how the moon is, more significant than we see it in the sky, even when it's orange and full, somehow manages to sneak in some nights to close to your bed, to your dreams, so close that it puts its hand of light on your shoulder and brings you into this reality where everything is exactly as what it seems, and the strange world has no definition. The moon even manages to transform reality into such magic in which it travels unhindered on earth, to the desired dimensions. It almost becomes a toy in the hands of those who would learn, at some point, to master it. They live surrounded by satellites, and maybe they're just signs of these worlds sneaking around, ignored by those who sleep and forget their dreams with the first blink of an eye at dawn. Are we or are we not of this world? We are now caught between our two realities, one we would never have expected, but which many of our grandparents and great-grandparents experienced. It frightens us that we no longer have the freedom we didn't give about anything. For it is when you lose small portions of your daily reality, the freedom to put one foot before the other in any direction you wish, that you begin to love it, but above all, to defend it at all costs. Who says, after all, that we can't do acts of courage in the privacy of our dreams? I have a habit, without my will, of travelling to almost the same places, of dreaming and moving through the same houses several times, and I even have the conscience to ask myself whether the neighbours have changed or are the same from the past dream. I find these places, these apartments, these buildings that not even a talented architect could describe or draw, they seem to me all kinds of 'home' and I know, every time, that I've been there before, that it's not the first time I've lived in a dream, that my home has the highest windows that could fit if she wanted, the whole moon. Do we have a different identity in isolation? I don't remember dreaming about the moon so often. Maybe they're coming down into our homes just like deer that end up travelling the streets of cities where no one seems to live any more. The scenario in which earth without humans would obey in the shortest time the laws of nature becomes possible; you begin to see it unfold before your eyes. Wouldn't that be fantastic? But you can't go too hard to think; we'll immediately overwhelm the sidewalks, the streets, the woods, at the first sign that the clouds have gone away, at the first urge that we can resume our half-done, mouthy and evil lives. And it all breaks down here, a road from which we fail to learn much, but perhaps enough to be prepared as in a future where the moon would make its courage to visit us. In the time of day, of our reality, undreamed, we must be ready to give back, to leave to the deer what is of the deer, the crickets that are of the crickets. Let us be prepared for that moment when, when the sky pours out when the clouds are more massive than ever and closer to suffocating us, to give back, to abandon our cars as in any film script, seen and revisited, in our peace, with the exercise of isolation and hope in mind, with the confidence that our gesture, global, universal, will cleanse the whole world of noxious and polluting thoughts. And we'll see each other gradually, at the first handshake, better and gentler than ever, amazed that we didn't do that much, much earlier.
