He sits on the bench by the creek for hours without uttering a word, accompanied by the gentle touch of the wind and the soothing sound of the passage of time. Peace, as it might seem. It's the only place that brings him the solace for the omnipresent tendencies towards the pathetic.
Everynight when he goes to bed, his thoughts invariably find their way back to the place where he had a glimpse of a new world and its inhabitants. The wonder identical to the instant when Dorothy opened the door and stepped into the newfound land, full of colours.
He yearned to go back the moment the 4 wheel monster started up its engine with a cruel roar and trembling thump marching to Barajas at 6 o'clock in the morning, to be walking on Compañía, Toro, Zamora..., touching the stone walls, strolling in the piso and resi and being in the places where drops of emotions were shed. Even after all these years and so many things forgotten he still sees them clearly.
Yet, he is afraid to go back there. Fear. He looks wide-eyed into the darkness which moments ago was his room. But, to be honest, it doesn't really matter whether it's bright or gloom, he is not looking at what's in front of him anyway. Even if he does, they all appeared to be the same. He afraids that when he finally finds himself standing on the acquainted soil he is but by himself. The realization came to him that even before it had begun, it had already ended and will never repeat itself the very same way, it's lost, swept away and gone. This thought tortures him and he has no way of battling against it, no weapons powerful enough to turn back the tide. It is written and unerasable. In another place and time, she told him not to be so pathetic. But there is not really much he can do because that's what he is.
It is heavy, sometimes it makes him hard to breathe, it sucks away his joys like the relentless mid day sun, hanging high on the sky, out of reach of the ants below.
One day a good spot he found. So he sits by the stream listening to the stories told by the flow.
Everynight when he goes to bed, his thoughts invariably find their way back to the place where he had a glimpse of a new world and its inhabitants. The wonder identical to the instant when Dorothy opened the door and stepped into the newfound land, full of colours.
He yearned to go back the moment the 4 wheel monster started up its engine with a cruel roar and trembling thump marching to Barajas at 6 o'clock in the morning, to be walking on Compañía, Toro, Zamora..., touching the stone walls, strolling in the piso and resi and being in the places where drops of emotions were shed. Even after all these years and so many things forgotten he still sees them clearly.
Yet, he is afraid to go back there. Fear. He looks wide-eyed into the darkness which moments ago was his room. But, to be honest, it doesn't really matter whether it's bright or gloom, he is not looking at what's in front of him anyway. Even if he does, they all appeared to be the same. He afraids that when he finally finds himself standing on the acquainted soil he is but by himself. The realization came to him that even before it had begun, it had already ended and will never repeat itself the very same way, it's lost, swept away and gone. This thought tortures him and he has no way of battling against it, no weapons powerful enough to turn back the tide. It is written and unerasable. In another place and time, she told him not to be so pathetic. But there is not really much he can do because that's what he is.
It is heavy, sometimes it makes him hard to breathe, it sucks away his joys like the relentless mid day sun, hanging high on the sky, out of reach of the ants below.
One day a good spot he found. So he sits by the stream listening to the stories told by the flow.
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