This short tale was selected with a "Special Mention" in a web contest based on writing something inspired on the picture above.
http://www.treintatrios.com.ar/fotox.php?ph=04
My head is part of the heritage you will leave, I take part in your life, I locate myself in your visits area, I am not moving, they take me, clean me, admire me.
To touch me cause delirium and fear, to touch happened in past lives, I miss a grave, I miss a shovel, I want to enjoy the hardship, I want to feed the hungry worms, I like the evening breeze coming through the window, nothing else.
I am useful for your sporadic thoughts, your smoke and I shape a single thought that tells you what is wrong in your life, and then you run away, closing the only opportunity I have to escape, but what am I saying?, I don’t have the body that would have served me to do it, I don’t have the desire to plan it, nor encourage the rest of unwilling faces who are with me and hesitate to talk.
The leader to my life I am not, nor either Adam's ribs, those that served as food centuries ago, or were just a few years?
I pretend to be dead to survive this immense punishment of seeing a Monair’s inert retort accompanied by your two Ikea lamps which do not match with that leather sofas nor with the spinal cord of that happened tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment