The scent of pine oozed into my lungs like smooth melting sugar as I walked through the recently rain-bathed forest. The crisp green and earthly tones of nature suggested emotive tales of imagination, dating to, or rather pointing to a timeless memory of home where my heart swelled with blissful sweetness and emanated with self-indulging love.
I laid upon the wet pine straw; a bed once dreamt ‘mid the forest clearing. Although the late afternoon sun radiated through the nearby droplets suspending from all around, traces of storm clouds hung above the glade to shelter me with their coolness.
The sound of the dancing river to the north and the whistling mockingbirds cast the trance of a tribal enchantment, serving together as gatekeepers into the subtler realms of being. Little eyes peeked out curiously through the angles adjacent to the forest’s gleam in this in-between, desirous to know who came to drowse amidst their digs.
Blending softly in the breeze, the whispers and hushed words of the forest denizens became swirls of their resolve to welcome me. Their lulling touch reminisced about the weaving threads where wanderers and spirits met for ecstatic frolic in the fold of freedom borne by the young hearts of jolly children.
“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.
“¡Sí se puede!”
I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.
Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.
Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.
Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.
Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.
I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder — Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.
Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.
With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.
I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.