The little prince who forgot to look at the sky
Додано: Нед, 23 січня 2022, 12:48The little prince who forgot to look at the sky
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п»їI don't know why there are people who pierce to the bone, even if you haven't heard a word from their mouth, not even a glance. Even today I don't know why, he and no other, brought me that special feeling. So that if it didn't happen, the day had not existed for me in its full sense.
I would have been about six years old, when it was already more than familiar to see him passing up and down the street. He was blond and reminded me of the little prince. Every afternoon I would look out from the balcony, with my face between the bars and my legs dangling like the rest of the plants that fell in green cascades towards the asphalt, while next to my sandwich, I would snack on the sweet white pistils of the red carnations that my mother collected.
It reminded me of the little prince
"I have it on good authority that that boy was special, so special that he didn't seem to fit into this world."
Before nightfall, as he did every day, he would stride across the street looking down at the ground, his arms laden with books, with the saddest look on his face you could ever imagine. I always dreamed that he would look up, if only once, and with his eyes I would shout to him what the world could offer him if he would stop bowing his head and look straight ahead or towards the sky, but he never did.
With his gaze I wanted to shout to him what the world could offer him if he would stop ducking his head, but he never did.
What I know of him, was through the comments, that like white butterflies dozing on the whitewashed walls fluttered at "la hora de la fresquita" over the chairs in the doors of the houses, or perhaps, once again, my imagination created him. This is the story.
The little prince's diagnosis-His problem is that he reads too much.
That was the diagnosis offered to Juan Delgado. From the homeopath to the psychologist, the acupuncturist, the priest, the baker, the kiosk owner, the family, and of course the bookseller. They all coincided or influenced each other.
When Juan Delgado returned home exhausted from the usual circle walk of his mind. After hearing this phrase as he passed by, over and over again, like a tireless echo, he had no choice but to surrender and accept that books were the cause and the conclusion to his problem.
As she usually did, before catching the bus back to town, she stopped by the mall and headed to the book section to say goodbye to them. Then he went on to the young fashion section, once there he picked up several garments at random and slipped into one of the fitting rooms.
"Completely naked he observed his image as if he was doing it for the first time."
The lights in the fitting room, designed to make her look better and better, barely managed to give a little life to her faded figure. Where once a thick clump of hair twisted, the glow of skin enveloped the skull like a beauty mask for a brain that had long been wandering aimlessly, lost.
The pronounced curvature of what were once her eyebrows crowned the memory of a deep gaze, now stripped of each and every one of its eyelashes. The face, reduced between beardless cheeks, longed for the absence of color and the stroke with which a map of kisses is drawn.
"She longed for the absence of color and the stroke with which a map of kisses is drawn."
The skin of the pubis, once covered with stiff black hair from which her tension emerged, was now reminiscent of that of premature sculptures, unaware of carnal pleasure, marble and fragile.
She raised her bony arms and knotted them behind the nape of her neck, searching unsuccessfully for any trace of hair in her hidden armpits. Her whole being, once soft and fluffy, was now only transparent and fragile skin on the verge of falling off, without any trace of caress.
The image clouded over and reappeared behind the tear. Then she lowered her gaze and a grimace of something like a smile was pronounced: where only letters can take root with strength, where only they can reach, a hole opened in her chest, leaving a kind of torrent of hair, the color of silver.
Time passed and one day I stopped eating pistils on that balcony, but not before looking at the street without his presence and thinking that, regardless of what the world thought, books were not the cause of anything, but the refuge of everything, for that little prince who was too lonely.
You might be interested in...
When the mouth is silent, the body speaks
Sometimes we express with the body what our mouth is unable to verbalize. Our body is an errand boy for the mind.
There are neighbors
What is synaptic space?
Do you know about dissociative identity disorder?
731_858
modafinil 400mg
п»їI don't know why there are people who pierce to the bone, even if you haven't heard a word from their mouth, not even a glance. Even today I don't know why, he and no other, brought me that special feeling. So that if it didn't happen, the day had not existed for me in its full sense.
I would have been about six years old, when it was already more than familiar to see him passing up and down the street. He was blond and reminded me of the little prince. Every afternoon I would look out from the balcony, with my face between the bars and my legs dangling like the rest of the plants that fell in green cascades towards the asphalt, while next to my sandwich, I would snack on the sweet white pistils of the red carnations that my mother collected.
It reminded me of the little prince
"I have it on good authority that that boy was special, so special that he didn't seem to fit into this world."
Before nightfall, as he did every day, he would stride across the street looking down at the ground, his arms laden with books, with the saddest look on his face you could ever imagine. I always dreamed that he would look up, if only once, and with his eyes I would shout to him what the world could offer him if he would stop bowing his head and look straight ahead or towards the sky, but he never did.
With his gaze I wanted to shout to him what the world could offer him if he would stop ducking his head, but he never did.
What I know of him, was through the comments, that like white butterflies dozing on the whitewashed walls fluttered at "la hora de la fresquita" over the chairs in the doors of the houses, or perhaps, once again, my imagination created him. This is the story.
The little prince's diagnosis-His problem is that he reads too much.
That was the diagnosis offered to Juan Delgado. From the homeopath to the psychologist, the acupuncturist, the priest, the baker, the kiosk owner, the family, and of course the bookseller. They all coincided or influenced each other.
When Juan Delgado returned home exhausted from the usual circle walk of his mind. After hearing this phrase as he passed by, over and over again, like a tireless echo, he had no choice but to surrender and accept that books were the cause and the conclusion to his problem.
As she usually did, before catching the bus back to town, she stopped by the mall and headed to the book section to say goodbye to them. Then he went on to the young fashion section, once there he picked up several garments at random and slipped into one of the fitting rooms.
"Completely naked he observed his image as if he was doing it for the first time."
The lights in the fitting room, designed to make her look better and better, barely managed to give a little life to her faded figure. Where once a thick clump of hair twisted, the glow of skin enveloped the skull like a beauty mask for a brain that had long been wandering aimlessly, lost.
The pronounced curvature of what were once her eyebrows crowned the memory of a deep gaze, now stripped of each and every one of its eyelashes. The face, reduced between beardless cheeks, longed for the absence of color and the stroke with which a map of kisses is drawn.
"She longed for the absence of color and the stroke with which a map of kisses is drawn."
The skin of the pubis, once covered with stiff black hair from which her tension emerged, was now reminiscent of that of premature sculptures, unaware of carnal pleasure, marble and fragile.
She raised her bony arms and knotted them behind the nape of her neck, searching unsuccessfully for any trace of hair in her hidden armpits. Her whole being, once soft and fluffy, was now only transparent and fragile skin on the verge of falling off, without any trace of caress.
The image clouded over and reappeared behind the tear. Then she lowered her gaze and a grimace of something like a smile was pronounced: where only letters can take root with strength, where only they can reach, a hole opened in her chest, leaving a kind of torrent of hair, the color of silver.
Time passed and one day I stopped eating pistils on that balcony, but not before looking at the street without his presence and thinking that, regardless of what the world thought, books were not the cause of anything, but the refuge of everything, for that little prince who was too lonely.
You might be interested in...
When the mouth is silent, the body speaks
Sometimes we express with the body what our mouth is unable to verbalize. Our body is an errand boy for the mind.
There are neighbors
What is synaptic space?
Do you know about dissociative identity disorder?
731_858