I still remember, with an almost tangible tenderness, the intoxicating feelings and scents of that spring. The mountains around me, usually austere, had dressed up for a party, dotted with vibrant splashes of color. It was a living painting.
Everything was so different then, and I was different too. The nuances of the colors weren't just on the surface of the petals; they exploded, vivid and joyful, inside my head. Every step on the grassy paths was accompanied by the sweet and unmistakable fragrance of the blossoms, an essence of carefree joy and positivity that seemed to permeate every fiber of my being.
Then, without warning, a terribly dark spring arrived. While nature around me was celebrating its most spectacular rebirth, with the peaks slowly shedding their snow to reveal emerald pastures and sparkling waterfalls, my mind was swallowed by a deep black hole. Even walking through those places that once brought me such comfort—beneath the imposing larches, along the murmuring streams—it was as if I couldn't see them at all.
Total blackness, an impenetrable veil that obscured all beauty.
It took a time that felt infinite, a long winter of the soul, before I began to perceive even a tenth of that wonder I felt before. But nature, in its infinite wisdom, teaches the most precious lesson: we must learn to appreciate the long "no" moments. Not all buds bloom at once, and even the most resilient flowers must face snow and frost before unfolding in all their magnificence. Sooner or later, rebirth returns. We must know how to wait, be patient, and above all, understand that darkness is not just the absence of light; it's there to teach you many things, to strengthen you, to make you appreciate the light even more when it finally reappears.
And now, looking at these photos of alpine flowers, I see not only their beauty but also my own journey.
