The lie

That everything would change, they said, and that everything would be different. After a while he understood why they had lied.

Source of the images: Pixabay and @talentclub

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Temporal obsession

He was so obsessed with time that he had digital clocks in every corner of his house. Her life was controlled by a digital hand. One day he got up and found that they had been stolen. He sat on the couch and let himself die because, without a watch, his life was meaningless. He spent the days watching the sun rise and fall and how life went by outside his home. On the third day he got up, with an urgent desire to eat. Then he realized that time was just a perspective on the prism of his life.

Image source: Pixabay  and @talentclub

Lectura y mar

You want the winter to come

I know you want winter to come. That you don't like summer, the sun, the beach, or its cumbersome sand. I also know that you don't like the darkness, nor the stale smell of humidity, that gets in your way even the most hidden of your fibers. That you wait until they open the doors and free you from the dirty wood of this old wardrobe and walk in the city parks again; but don't forget that this is the fate of the cloth coats.

Source of the images: Pixabay and @talentclub

Medio minuto para morir

Quieres que llegue el invierno

Ya sé que quieres que llegue el invierno. Que no te gusta el verano, ni el Sol, ni la playa, ni su engorrosa arena. También sé que no te gusta la oscuridad, ni el olor rancio de la humedad, que se te mete hasta la más oculta de tus fibras. Que esperas a que abran las puertas y que te liberen de la madera sucia de este viejo ropero y volver a pasear por los parques de la ciudad; pero no olvides que este es el sino de los abrigos de paño. 

Entiendo tu añoranza por el frío, por esos días en que el viento gélido acaricia tu lana y los copos de nieve se posan suavemente sobre tus pliegues. Aguardas paciente, mientras el calor se desvanece lentamente, imaginando esos momentos en los que vuelves a ser útil y necesario. La vida en la penumbra del armario no es fácil, lo sé. La espera se hace eterna y las sombras que te rodean se vuelven compañeras indeseadas. La madera cruje con cada cambio de estación, y el moho amenaza con dejar su impronta.

Pero no desesperes, querido abrigo. El verano no es eterno y tu momento llegará. Las puertas se abrirán, la luz volverá a acariciar tus botones y la brisa invernal te envolverá una vez más. Entonces, volverás a sentirte vivo, recorriendo las avenidas, protegiendo del frío a quien te lleva. Ese será tu instante de gloria, cuando el invierno te devuelva a la vida y los días soleados sean solo un recuerdo lejano.

Hasta entonces, resiste. La oscuridad no dura para siempre y la madera vieja no puede contener tu esencia. Llegará el día en que los parques te vean pasar, que las hojas secas crujan bajo tus pasos, y que el viento frío sea tu compañero. No olvides que, aunque el ropero sea tu prisión temporal, el invierno siempre vuelve, y con él, tu propósito.

Fuente de las imágenes: Pixabay

The unfinished novel

He came to the newsstand like every other day. Dragging his left leg, which hadn't been working properly for a long time. He greeted the clerk, paid for the paper and went to the café. He stopped at the entrance, closed his eyes and smelled the scent of everyday life, of the common and the traditional. Then he walked slowly to the back of the cafeteria, towards a table that was reserved under the name. When he arrived he put the newspaper on the table and sat down. He took out his notebook and his pencil. He breathed. There, his heart felt safe and happy. Mary, the waitress, brought you the black coffee, very hot, loaded and bitter. He smiled at her and she asked him how the novel was going.

He, while still smiling, told her that he hoped to finish it before he died. Death has been knocking on my door for a year, she's sitting on the first step of my driveway. Every day I greet her and she returns it to me with a slight bow of her scythe.

"Don't say that, you're like clockwork."

Mary left the coffee in the middle of the table. He stared hypnotized at the light smoke coming from the coffee. He took the notebook, the pencil and began to write the first thing that came into his head; automatic writing, they tell him, because for many years he has not been able to write a paragraph of fiction, he only writes the crazy things that come into his head, waiting for the desire to invent and tell stories to return.

Image source: Pixabay @talentclub