Little Wind Story no. 9

Instincts

by Octavian Balea

There is a small voice on his shoulder that tells him what to do and what to think. That's the voice that defines whatever is genuine in him. On the other shoulder there is allways the voice of his reason, of his society's reason, of the reason that his small circle of individuals are imposing upon him. The voice of logical behaviour.

He sees and he loves what he sees. He feels but the voice bombards him with reasons. He censors his feelings. He is a conventional and conformist individual. His small circle is proud of him.

As a child he didn't need to listen to that voice.

But his instincts blow like an irresistable wind through his ears.

Little Wind Story no. 8

Wind Chains

by Octavian Balea

There is a time when people meet eachother in one place to sit down and speak about things they don't usualy do. Small people, big people, colourfull personalities, foggy faces, they all sit around the same table and start speaking about how life would be if they could raize more often their fingers in the air to check out the direction from which the danger comes.

But they have to invent their language. And they listen. They listen to the water and the wind.

And they invent instruments. Musical instruments. Musical blowing instruments.

And they have a language. The wind is their language.

Little Wind Story no. 7

Building up the wind catacombs

by Octavian Balea

There where the engines roar and metal bends under the heavy weight presses, wind gets isolated in dark catacombs. This is the machine that builds up the catacombs. A complicated machine that builds up a system of wind catacombs. A machine with many eyes and a lot of buttons, a machine with a ghostly presence among people that builds up endless networks of wind.

The wind is metalic.

Little Wind Story no. 6

The Dead Soldier

by Octavian Balea

The soldier lifts his rifle to defend his country. He lifts his rifle to vow faith to his country. He lifts his rifle to kill his enemy. Who is his enemy? The enemy of his country, the enemy of his family. He inherited his family. He inherited his enemies. He is the inherited enemy of his enemies.

The soldier died. Rifles are being lifted in his honor.

The soldier's mother slowly dies. The wind slowly dies aswell.

The soldier's honor is alive. The wind slowly dies.

Little Wind Story no. 5

Olimpiu

by Octavian Balea

A conductor on top of a mountain feeding his body with the molten lava of the depth and getting his precious fluids from the mineral water springs. His eyes are made of quartz and his hands are as soft as the moss growing on heavy boulders of granite. His voice is like the thunder and his music comes from the tips of his fingers like an unforgiving avalanche crushing over the young fragile birch trees. His jaws are carved from the finest steel by the world's most skilled ironsmiths. His will is imaculate like italian marble and between his powerful arms he holds the whole weight of the humankind's expectations.

His spirit is like wind. His image of music is like wind.