Her mother had told her that when they misbehaved and argued with each other, she would put her and her siblings out into the garden until they resolved it, only then could they come back inside. If it rained, it was her mother who would go out. Fold the opposite side. Now, when she visits her childhood home, it always seems so much smaller, it doesn't seem like it could hold so many stories and so much fun. What a beautiful yellow airplane! She opens the window. Like when she was a child, she breathes warm air onto the tip of the airplane. Holding it between the fingers of her right hand, she gives it a push that makes her sun- yellow airplane fly. She picks up her cell phone and sends a message to her mother: “I need to find St. Thérèse roses to plant in my garden.” Elena Beatriz Tomasel, Membro efetivo da SPPA (Sociedade Psicanalítica de Porto Alegre) Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on her desk, and she thought it was a chance, as she had not written in years. She thought the signal had been given. A signal of white paper waiting for the instantaneous moments of leaving reality and entering fantasy. However, there was a problem: fear! She would have to start slowly, step by step, and without thinking. Write as if walking on the sea. Feel the gentle breeze of the images that would emerge. Notice if the scents of one scene or another changed and pay attention to colour shifts. Okay! Therefore, she would start with the sea and the first time she saw the sea. She was about ten years old. Until then, her vacations had always been in the mountains and on the river. Her early childhood was filled with rivers, fresh water, and long afternoons. However, after seeing the sea, things changed. In addition, they were vast. The sea was more than vast, it was infinite. Yes, it was. Moreover, that is how it was. That is how it would be; she would write about the first times... the first time I saw the sea, I felt small. Small and alone. Just a grain, a grain of sand. Tiny. Please, someone there. Please help me see the sea because there is not one in me. I do not have the space or courage to see and understand what the sea is. What a sea! Is the sea love? Sandra Brito Fornelos, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the desk. It looked like a handwritten note, but she couldn't immediately identify the message's content; it seemed written in an unknown, or coded, language. What could that message be, and where had it come from? A quick internet search revealed it was an ancient dialect from the Mayan culture, but she couldn't figure out where it had come from or how it had ended up in her field.
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