The Seasons

If the cycle of the seasons had stopped amazing us is due to this unhealthy trend to accustom oneself to daily deeds and facts.

The first step to get out of that tedium is to recognize that we are cyclic beings. Linearity, irreversibility happens only at physical level. Beyond it our joys and sorrows, our preferences and displeasures, our euphorias and depressions vary in a cyclic way with a amplitude and frequency of one's own. And how we perceive our environment and the way we interpret it is a reflection of our moment's frame of mind.

This way those who see in this photographs only images of beings, objects and places will be getting half the argument: in them there are my summers full of sand in the wind, my autumns that go on stripping my leaves, my winters plenty of firewood and mate (*) and my springs promising me that I will continue flourishing.

To adapt to inner climates was never easy to me. And as years pass it seems to me that some seasons last more than others and that certain clothing dress me for a longer time.

Even so someway I manage to rescue from my monotony some signals that indicate me that I was still alive yet part of the cycle.

And now that those signals change into photographs and haiku I dare to enter trough your window like a clandestine breeze of whicheever season with the hope of remain in your memory at least as a remainder that we are no more permanent than a fleeting state of the soul.

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(*) mate: (the "a" pronounced like in the word "pastel") A typical Uruguayan bitter infusion made with mate herb.

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