Snow White, The Marlboro Man & The Mustang

Free, happy and profoundly healing. (Charcoal Sketch)

It is no secret that our taste in storytelling (be it through music, visual arts, movies, theater or literature) says more about us than we would like to admit. Ever met that seemingly really peaceful and easygoing person who wouldn't hurt a fly, but has an unexplainable thirst for documentaries about serial killers and horror movies?

I recently remembered the first time I was taken to the cinema. I think I was four or five - and the movie was Snow White & The Seven Dwarves. The movie seemed really cool to me, I loved watching these drawings being alive and so real. The evil queen scared the living daylights out of me. The whole thing with the prince kind of went over my head, as did the story in general, to be honest.

The truth is that I was a little distracted during the main show, because what I had seen earlier had captivated my heart, soul and mind.

This was the 1980s and smoking didn't have the terrible reputation yet that it has now. In other words, the Marlboro Man was still riding his mustang over the cinema screens, even if the audience was mainly under ten years old. Hook 'em early, they say...

And hooked I was. Disney's lure of a princessly life had lost to the temptation of a weathered wrangler with a bad cough. To be fair, they didn't show the cough. They showed the horse. And I think that was what had truly captivated my young soul.

The idea that such a powerful being could be your friend and ally in a fairly inhospitable environment, and the obvious bond of trust between horse and human captured me.

When I was ten, my mother signed me up for riding lessons. This is where I found out the dark truth behind the facade. I saw horses being kept in small boxes, overworked, dominated and beaten by the teachers. I watched them being bought and sold, like they were objects. I watched how their rich "owners" came to the stall every now and then, would ride them, and then ignore them for the rest of the week.

Thankfully, I was abysmal at the sport, so the damage I inflicted was hopefully minimal. I tried to fit in, but I think it was painfully obvious to everybody else that I didn't. The longer it went on for, the more I just cherished the moments of being outside in nature and spending time with the horses, to be honest.

I was fifteen when my favourite horse became lame and was slaughtered, because the insurance would pay more than a potential buyer. Denial was no longer an option, and I told my mother that I would rather learn how to play guitar than continue with the riding lessons.

She saw my pain, understood and consented.

However, the dream of the horses returned, and since I am living in the Americas, I started investigating what had happened to the Marlboro Man and his mustang. It turns out to be a really complicated subject with many conflicting views and opinions, but it's beautiful to witness how many people are dedicating their lives to the conservation of these feral beings, be it through advocacy, or providing them with sanctuaries, where they are left to their own devices and can live in the most natural way.

It is also wonderful to watch that the idea of building trust between horse and human has overtaken the old break-em-in-domination methods of my childhood when it comes to taming the captured horses and giving them a new purpose in life.

Although it is a complex story and the current situation seems to be far from ideal, it makes me happy that captured mustangs aren't used for war, hard labor and dog food anymore, but help rehabilitate prisoners, veterans and other folks with an equally complex story. And by the look of it, they make much better therapists than any human.

I guess that's one of the positive aspects of aging: you get to witness change and evolution. It is slow, but very profound.