When I reach the middle of the afternoon, when the trees finally can fight the sun, that is when I breathe in slowly and manage to stop the time.
in open air
That’s how I wait for her
by the window
in my phone
Drag the curtain
for a tone
They both saw the apple up there, at the same time.
One asked for an axe;
the other wished for wings.
The fingers tingle because the elbows are pressed against the armrests. The world spins around me in the form of people walking in circles through rectangular corridors, searching for meaning in the last minutes.
I don’t have words of comfort myself for the dead day. Died in vain. The foot keeps its beat and the diaphragm strives. People pass by me and cheer up. No one shares my sadness, ignoring the corpse in the room.
I received some complaints in these past few months regarding the strange rhythm and excessive poor rhymes in my book, The Endless Line. As you might know, I am not a native English speaker, and it looked okay when I was writing and editing and proofreading and stuff. But I let it fade from my memory a little and then reread it, and OH THE HORROR!
So, I had three options:
a) Act like a regular writer and say “It’s my style, fuck off!”
b) Act like a regular writer and take it down crying to never speak of it again
c) Act like a normal person and revise the hell out of it
I did all of them, but luckily I did c last. And now the second edition of ‘The Endless Line’ is available on Amazon!
If you have it already you can simply update the book; if you don’t, do :)
The little boy received a mysterious gift. It was a tiny piece of fabric. His dog sniffed it and ran barking down the street. He followed the animal in a hurry, one of the feet bare. In the middle of a field, the dog stopped. He dug there and found a dirty cape, with a tiny piece missing.
Many years later, after flying all over the world, over worlds, the grown boy had seen enough. He smiled, cut another tiny piece of fabric, and sent it as a gift.
Write, yes, because one life is not enough.
The fingers slide over the keyboard, ruined by dry sweat, a proof of my instability. The eyes, however, limit my elliptical field of view to the squared cut to the world. Through the window is already possible to follow the shadows becoming monsters.
There is desire and fear of leaving, of the unknown that does not track the time like in here. Without no one reminding me that I exist, I would be one of those trees, cultivating the shadows that will swallow them whole when the night comes.
He found the pair of wings on a sunny Wednesday. How could an angel give up on them? He tried them on and flew upon us all with a simple smile on his face. Almost in outer space he looked back, down, and we were just tiny ants on the ground, grouped randomly. We were pure chance.
Up there he felt lonely, and finally remembered that he was the one to leave his wings behind.