Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Hoarder
Of the same I got two
scattered here and there
scattered here and there
for what was, I were
and what meant, I lost
Smiles and chatter,
lie in the clutter
for some objects hold
all what´s left untold
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Friday, August 8, 2014
Uncrafted
You held silver in your hands
an azure shiny sapphire
in the centre of the ring.
Both the farmer and his wife
advised you to treat with care
for they thought of what you had
the most precious of all gems.
Trading beautiful for handy
alas,
you silly, clumsy blacksmith
forged the ring into a knife.
With a sharp and pointy blade
ended up hurting yourself
wrecked a fine and worthy stone
splinters spreading everywhere.
Beyond question, her own fault
she preferred him over many:
The goldsmith and other experts
with industrious, gentle hands
wanted the joy for themselves
to polish the striking crag.
Yet she chose the cloddish blacksmith
over other tender craftsmen.
Such a pity what his rough hands
and her naivety took to pieces.
Now on the wooden table
among bits and drops of blue
sad-looking lay the remains
of what was once a stunning jewel.
an azure shiny sapphire
in the centre of the ring.
Both the farmer and his wife
advised you to treat with care
for they thought of what you had
the most precious of all gems.
Trading beautiful for handy
alas,
you silly, clumsy blacksmith
forged the ring into a knife.
With a sharp and pointy blade
ended up hurting yourself
wrecked a fine and worthy stone
splinters spreading everywhere.
Beyond question, her own fault
she preferred him over many:
The goldsmith and other experts
with industrious, gentle hands
wanted the joy for themselves
to polish the striking crag.
Yet she chose the cloddish blacksmith
over other tender craftsmen.
Such a pity what his rough hands
and her naivety took to pieces.
Now on the wooden table
among bits and drops of blue
sad-looking lay the remains
of what was once a stunning jewel.
Monday, August 4, 2014
From the Ashes
- Chapter I / Draft -
Eyes red and watery, her hands trembling around a cup of tea that
had been served too long ago and was not warm anymore.
She
had gotten used to the rapid steps of the nurses, click-clacking their
way in and out of the emergency room all night long. This time she heard
slower steps, there was no hurry anymore.
The
cup slid a bit under her sweaty hands when the door opened and the
doctor came in. He was a young man but he looked older than he was after
years of long night shifts and lack of sleep.
With
a quick move of her hand she tried to wipe off the wetness in her eyes
and cheeks. The moment he was opening the door, Dr. Newman got a glimpse
of what she was doing and his expression softened immediately. He was still nervous.
- Hi there Diane, how are you feeling?
Only
at this point had he taken a good look at her. She looked pale and
fragile. Her skin reminded him of his grandmother's old leather purse:
dry and rough. Her appearance was not that different from so many other
corpses he had seen before, except this one was alive. Sort of.
Diane
just nodded and looked at him in the eyes. She thought it was kind from
him to ask, but there was no good answer to this question and he
already knew this. He was just being polite. She had also lost all her
strength a couple of hours ago and did not feel like wasting any energy
in replying.
The
doctor reached some papers on the little white table next to her bed.
He had to move the magazines away to find them and proceeded to read
them carefully, making notes every now and then. For a while, all you
could hear in the room was the sound of his pen scraping Diane's medical
reports.
Ignis
You can see me
playing with flames
about to get burnt.
Tell me not to
or push me further:
It hurts either way.
about to get burnt.
Tell me not to
or push me further:
It hurts either way.
Soup
Grandma told you to never drink the soup as warm as it is served.
But it’s been 15 years and it still burns as hell.
Homesickness (or Stockholm Syndrome)
I miss Caracas. I miss driving in the highway at the Avila, hearing the birds sing every morning on my way to university. The unceasing good weather is a good reason to live regardless of the circumstances. Wild parrots flying around my faculty if I got there early enough to see them before they took off to the mountain. Hiking on Sundays with my dogs. Eating empanadas with friends before class every morning while discussing the latest political happening with the usual accompanying indignation.
(The Cloud Shepherd by Jean Arp at Universidad Central de Venezuela)
I miss the sunny days, the busy streets and the sound of chaos. I miss
the love-hate relationship with the subway and cursing the motor-bikers who
scratch your wing mirror in an attempt to cheat traffic jams. Book club
meetings at the botanical garden of my old university and drinking
"chicha" ( rice drink) near the Aula Magna while watching other people
graduate and take pictures; naively thinking that would be me in 3
years. I miss being at a one hour ride from the Caribbean.
I even miss protesting on the streets and watching on the news which other TV channel was shut down by the government and who else from the opposition was sent to jail. Waiting impatiently for the results of an election, ingenuously hoping that corruption, ignorance and greed wouldn't win again, that at least fraud wouldn’t be so obvious this time.
There is a positive side to living in a politically and socially unstable place: The sense of helplessness takes weight off your shoulders. It makes you realize that despite how much you worry, there are just too many things out of your control. All you can do is sit back and enjoy the now.
Living in such generalized chaos and getting used to uncertainty forces you to appreciate the present because it's all you have. I miss that. And I even secretly miss having an excuse to blame the government for all my problems.
Looking at the picture of a place you
love so much feels odd when you know you can't come back. At least not for now, at least not in a long time. It makes you feel like a
piece of yourself is missing because it's still over there. But it's
fine: that's where it wants to stay.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Chester and the Flea Circus - unfinished first chapter
It started when Chester began to scratch more than normally. He was a small rowdy dog that spent his day following Martha everywhere and playing with Bobby, Martha's 7 year old son.
For a long time Bobby went on and on about having seen a town of fleas on Chester's back, how well organized they were and how the smaller fleas even went to teeny schools. His mother did not believe him, of course. For adults have a hard time believing kids, despite their truthful nature of children
Martha thought Bobby was only saying this out of solidarity with Chester. See, Chester would run away terrified every time he heard the word "vet". He could figure out where they were going even when she mentioned the V-E-T. But there was no way the dog would be get away by hiding under the oven this time: he scratched way too much lately.
One afternoon Martha invited friends over for tea and was entertaining them by telling the story Bobby had made up about a flea town on Chester's back:
- "He is so creative...can you imagine? I told him that I needed to the dog to the vet to get an anti-flea bath. The boy was all terrified and begged me not to: " don't mama, don't do it! Don't destroy the tiny flea village".
- "Ah!" replied the woman with the highest heels and the long blue skirt, dark hair and thick glasses -"Children and their imagination!"-.
All of them laughed hysterically except for the chubby lady in the middle of the sofa. She kept staring at Chester with disgust while his back paws took turns to vehemently scratch his ears. She then nervously tied her blond hair in a pony tail, fearing one of the insects would migrate to her thin-haired, greasy scalp.
One afternoon Martha invited friends over for tea and was entertaining them by telling the story Bobby had made up about a flea town on Chester's back:
- "He is so creative...can you imagine? I told him that I needed to the dog to the vet to get an anti-flea bath. The boy was all terrified and begged me not to: " don't mama, don't do it! Don't destroy the tiny flea village".
- "Ah!" replied the woman with the highest heels and the long blue skirt, dark hair and thick glasses -"Children and their imagination!"-.
All of them laughed hysterically except for the chubby lady in the middle of the sofa. She kept staring at Chester with disgust while his back paws took turns to vehemently scratch his ears. She then nervously tied her blond hair in a pony tail, fearing one of the insects would migrate to her thin-haired, greasy scalp.
The ladies' comments made Bobby angry and the high-pitched laughter irritated Chester too. Bobby did not understand yet that it is in every adult's nature to ridicule the truth, especially when coming from a child. They would rather hear a realistic lie than a fantastic fact. And that is what Chester's flea village was.
Bobby knew the fleas needed his help more than ever: he would not allow the vet to kill them. So he left the room while the ladies were enjoying a second batch of cookies and another round of tea.
Pensively walking into the garden, he desperately tried to come up with a plan. He needed to save the fleas but also free Chester from all that unpleasant scratching. And most importantly: he needed to save him the visit to the vicious vet.
Still upset, Bobby noticed that he was stepping on that day's newspaper. The prints his muddy shoes had made were covering what looked like a pamphlet hidden between the papers. He picked it up and a pathetic-looking clown was visible between Bobby's shoe prints:
Inside the clown's broad smile read:
Bobby held the pamphlet for a while: The bearded lady looked a bit like Uncle Thomas. He read the whole thing again. "Tiny City? that sounds interesting. I wonder what it is".
He came back home with the piece of paper still in his hands and hurried to grab his coat before the women could notice he was about to leave. He had to ask Pete. Pete would know.
Bobby knew the fleas needed his help more than ever: he would not allow the vet to kill them. So he left the room while the ladies were enjoying a second batch of cookies and another round of tea.
Pensively walking into the garden, he desperately tried to come up with a plan. He needed to save the fleas but also free Chester from all that unpleasant scratching. And most importantly: he needed to save him the visit to the vicious vet.
Still upset, Bobby noticed that he was stepping on that day's newspaper. The prints his muddy shoes had made were covering what looked like a pamphlet hidden between the papers. He picked it up and a pathetic-looking clown was visible between Bobby's shoe prints:
Inside the clown's broad smile read:
"Dighton Brothers' Circus. Last days in town!
Presenting the Greatest Shows: The Bearded Lady, the infamous Werewolf,
the Rubber Sisters and our newest attraction:
Tiny City!"
Bobby held the pamphlet for a while: The bearded lady looked a bit like Uncle Thomas. He read the whole thing again. "Tiny City? that sounds interesting. I wonder what it is".
He came back home with the piece of paper still in his hands and hurried to grab his coat before the women could notice he was about to leave. He had to ask Pete. Pete would know.
De la belleza, el arte y la creación.
No sigo estilos musicales ni escucho música a toda hora. Tampoco sé mucho de las últimas tendencias en el teatro, la opera o la pintura.
Por alguna razón no me la llevo bien con el orden, aprender estructuras y saber nombres de estilos específicos. Mucho menos puedo hablar con detalles técnicos y explicar a través de ellos por qué algo relacionado con las bellas artes es hermoso.
Pero soy una gran aficionada de la belleza. La verdadera belleza es aquello de lo que los sentidos no se cansan.
El verdadero artista tiene la capacidad de capturar los sentidos y detener el tiempo en ellos, de manera que la contemplación no produce cansancio y llega incluso, cuando la belleza es tan grande que emula la creación divina, a producir el éxtasis.
Aquello que causa deleite sin cansancio es bello y lo bello se logra a través de la creación en el amor. El artífice que reproduce algo a través del arte lleva en sus manos la tarea de crear, tal y como Dios crea.
El artista crea belleza y con ello, vida. Como lo dice Platón: El amor es engendrar en la belleza. Entonces, qué más prueba de amor que la de aquel que dedica sus días a perfeccionar un talento que trae belleza al mundo? A veces se le tilda al artista de frívolo y banal, y cuán errada es esta suposición. Es su tarea brinda al mundo material lo que sólo se ha de ver con el espíritu y enseñárselo a nuestros sentidos No existe tarea más sublime.
El arte, me atrevo a decir, es la expresión más tangible de amor hacia la creación. Es el amor a lo creado, a la belleza, es la dedicación al deleite por la propia contemplación sin obtener nada acambio de tanto esfuerzo, de tantas horas de práctica. Lo único que se obtiene como recompensa es contemplar el objeto amado, contemplar la belleza de lo creado.
El artista se vuelve esclavo de la libertad que otorga olvidarse de todo lo que le rodea para centrarse en su creación, que es lo único que importa, lo único que merece su atención. El artista abandona lo mundano para adentrarse en la esencia del amor: la creación. Y qué es más poderoso que la fuerza de la creación, que la belleza?
Es por esto que llego a la conclusión de que la belleza es vida. Y es así como la música de un muy buen amigo mio me ha devuelto la vida en momentos de desolación. Donde no había nada se instala la belleza y siembra vida, tal y como Dios sembró la luz donde había sombras. Hace poco me ha enviado este amigo nuevas canciones tocadas por el mismo. Mi amigo es a mi parecer y estoy segura que el de muchos, un verdadero prodigio.
Puedo comparar escuchar sus piezas musicales con observar un cuadro de Van Gogh, mi pintor favorito. Como decía anteriormente, cuando algo es realmente hermoso, causa deleite sin cansancio puesto que es bello. Puedo escuchar una y otra vez sin cansancio las grabaciones que me envía este amigo, así como puedo pasar horas parada en un museo viendo mis obras impresionistas favoritas o puedo también pasar horas sin moverme observando "La Adoración del Cordero" en la Catedral de San Bavón. La máxima expresión de la belleza permite un deleite continuo, que no cansa. Así me veo escuchando una y otra vez la misma canción y me siento maravillada tal y como si fuera la primera vez que la escuchara sin importar cuantas veces ya la he reproducido en el computador.
Es increíble que una pieza de música pueda causar el mismo sentimiento que un cuadro de pintura. Lo que al pintor tomó horas de disciplina y talento juntos, le toma al músico. El producto, si verdaderamente bello, es el mismo: una pieza de arte que toca el espíritu en su fibra.
El arte es belleza, creación y amor juntos en la obra : la creación y el artista es el creador.
Aquel amigo que me ha enviado sus hermosas piezas de musica nunca podrá saber cómo ha tocado mi alma con su música. Por lo antes expuesto, siendo el arte creación y belleza, es vida. Y ha sido vida lo que este amigo me ha enviado a través de su música.
Estando deprimida y sin ganas de vivir por ciertas dificultades de la vida escuché estas notas y me llegaron al alma, encendieron en mi la llama que la contemplación en la belleza encienden. La vida que crean sus dedos cada vez que arracan aquella melodía de tan conocido instrumento musical, se instauró en mi corazón y borró, así sea temporalmente, la penumbra que llenaba mi corazón.
Qué más prueba que esto, que el arte es vida, por ser belleza y creación.
Agradezco a mi amigo por incitar con sus prodigiosas manos esta reflexión. Sobre todo, por incitar en mi el pensamiento que sólo el verdadero prodigio incita: el agradecimiento a estar vivo para poder contemplar tanta belleza.
Escuchando su música me di cuenta de lo afortunada que soy por poder escuchar, tal y como cuando se observa un bello día de verano y se agradece tener el sentido de la vista en perfecto funcionamiento. Como cuando se escucha por primera vez en la primavera el sonido alegre de los pájaros y se agradece poder escuchar, así mismo, al escuchar estas canciones lo primero que he sentido es un gran agradecimiento de estar viva, de formar parte de esta creación, de poder deleitarme con tanta hermosura. Una alegría de vivir que había olvidado hace algún tiempo y que sin duda es causada por aquel placer divino que es contemplar una obra producto del talento, la práctica, la disciplina y la virtud.
Por alguna razón no me la llevo bien con el orden, aprender estructuras y saber nombres de estilos específicos. Mucho menos puedo hablar con detalles técnicos y explicar a través de ellos por qué algo relacionado con las bellas artes es hermoso.
Pero soy una gran aficionada de la belleza. La verdadera belleza es aquello de lo que los sentidos no se cansan.
El verdadero artista tiene la capacidad de capturar los sentidos y detener el tiempo en ellos, de manera que la contemplación no produce cansancio y llega incluso, cuando la belleza es tan grande que emula la creación divina, a producir el éxtasis.
Aquello que causa deleite sin cansancio es bello y lo bello se logra a través de la creación en el amor. El artífice que reproduce algo a través del arte lleva en sus manos la tarea de crear, tal y como Dios crea.
El artista crea belleza y con ello, vida. Como lo dice Platón: El amor es engendrar en la belleza. Entonces, qué más prueba de amor que la de aquel que dedica sus días a perfeccionar un talento que trae belleza al mundo? A veces se le tilda al artista de frívolo y banal, y cuán errada es esta suposición. Es su tarea brinda al mundo material lo que sólo se ha de ver con el espíritu y enseñárselo a nuestros sentidos No existe tarea más sublime.
El arte, me atrevo a decir, es la expresión más tangible de amor hacia la creación. Es el amor a lo creado, a la belleza, es la dedicación al deleite por la propia contemplación sin obtener nada acambio de tanto esfuerzo, de tantas horas de práctica. Lo único que se obtiene como recompensa es contemplar el objeto amado, contemplar la belleza de lo creado.
El artista se vuelve esclavo de la libertad que otorga olvidarse de todo lo que le rodea para centrarse en su creación, que es lo único que importa, lo único que merece su atención. El artista abandona lo mundano para adentrarse en la esencia del amor: la creación. Y qué es más poderoso que la fuerza de la creación, que la belleza?
Es por esto que llego a la conclusión de que la belleza es vida. Y es así como la música de un muy buen amigo mio me ha devuelto la vida en momentos de desolación. Donde no había nada se instala la belleza y siembra vida, tal y como Dios sembró la luz donde había sombras. Hace poco me ha enviado este amigo nuevas canciones tocadas por el mismo. Mi amigo es a mi parecer y estoy segura que el de muchos, un verdadero prodigio.
Puedo comparar escuchar sus piezas musicales con observar un cuadro de Van Gogh, mi pintor favorito. Como decía anteriormente, cuando algo es realmente hermoso, causa deleite sin cansancio puesto que es bello. Puedo escuchar una y otra vez sin cansancio las grabaciones que me envía este amigo, así como puedo pasar horas parada en un museo viendo mis obras impresionistas favoritas o puedo también pasar horas sin moverme observando "La Adoración del Cordero" en la Catedral de San Bavón. La máxima expresión de la belleza permite un deleite continuo, que no cansa. Así me veo escuchando una y otra vez la misma canción y me siento maravillada tal y como si fuera la primera vez que la escuchara sin importar cuantas veces ya la he reproducido en el computador.
Es increíble que una pieza de música pueda causar el mismo sentimiento que un cuadro de pintura. Lo que al pintor tomó horas de disciplina y talento juntos, le toma al músico. El producto, si verdaderamente bello, es el mismo: una pieza de arte que toca el espíritu en su fibra.
El arte es belleza, creación y amor juntos en la obra : la creación y el artista es el creador.
Aquel amigo que me ha enviado sus hermosas piezas de musica nunca podrá saber cómo ha tocado mi alma con su música. Por lo antes expuesto, siendo el arte creación y belleza, es vida. Y ha sido vida lo que este amigo me ha enviado a través de su música.
Estando deprimida y sin ganas de vivir por ciertas dificultades de la vida escuché estas notas y me llegaron al alma, encendieron en mi la llama que la contemplación en la belleza encienden. La vida que crean sus dedos cada vez que arracan aquella melodía de tan conocido instrumento musical, se instauró en mi corazón y borró, así sea temporalmente, la penumbra que llenaba mi corazón.
Qué más prueba que esto, que el arte es vida, por ser belleza y creación.
Agradezco a mi amigo por incitar con sus prodigiosas manos esta reflexión. Sobre todo, por incitar en mi el pensamiento que sólo el verdadero prodigio incita: el agradecimiento a estar vivo para poder contemplar tanta belleza.
Escuchando su música me di cuenta de lo afortunada que soy por poder escuchar, tal y como cuando se observa un bello día de verano y se agradece tener el sentido de la vista en perfecto funcionamiento. Como cuando se escucha por primera vez en la primavera el sonido alegre de los pájaros y se agradece poder escuchar, así mismo, al escuchar estas canciones lo primero que he sentido es un gran agradecimiento de estar viva, de formar parte de esta creación, de poder deleitarme con tanta hermosura. Una alegría de vivir que había olvidado hace algún tiempo y que sin duda es causada por aquel placer divino que es contemplar una obra producto del talento, la práctica, la disciplina y la virtud.
Friday, April 27, 2012
My way to the lighthouse - 250 words
The burning feeling in my feet made me want to stop, but I did not. I had to go on until I could not breathe anymore. I wanted to be exhausted so that I could stop thinking. The waves reached my shoes every now and then. You could see a layer of sand where the shoes had got sticky because of the salty water. The crunching noise of the sand felt pleasant and it marked the rhythm of my steps.
Blue foamy waves greeted me every time I turned my head right. I liked running south: right the sea, left the town, below the sand and up the sky, which was bright blue or dark grey depending on the weather. The sunset was the best part of my running routine. I did not have a specific time for going running, it would vary according to the sunset time, which was very accurately predicted in some meteorology website. I always made sure to run thirty minutes to the lighthouse and then make my way back when the sunset started.
If there was nice weather, there would also be windsurfers all around the coast with their colorful windsurfing boards. They contrasted beautifully with the colors that the sun reflected on the sea. The rocks near the lighthouse seemed dangerous and pointy but sometimes I would dare to climb them. Then I would stop and enjoy that moment when beauty and fatigue converged, when peace replaced my thoughts. That moment was my reward.
An old friend's visit
I was laying on my bed when I felt a sticky tongue on my face leaving drool all over my blanket. I had not felt that for a long time. Then I remembered Charlie and I could not be happier to see him. I got up my bed and hugged him like you hug a friend you have missed. I did not understand why he was there, but I did not think about it either.
First I looked right into his eyes.Being looked by him felt like sitting by the fireplace in winter. I touched his head and ears, soft as always. I hugged him again and kissed his forehead. You could tell he liked that.
Charlie was a golden retriever. It is hard to use this word for a dog, but he was kind. He had this urge to please everyone. He was also small and we always made fun of that. Golden Retrievers are supposed to be big, but Charlie never grew up as much as he should have. That was just fine, we lived in an apartment.
I get up wanting to do as many things as possible with my old best friend. I take the leash and he comes waving his tail and jumping. I hugged him again and he looked back at me as if smiling. We go out and I decide to take him for a ride. He loved taking his head out of the window, but not too much. He never liked being too far away from me.
I stopped at a park we used to go to when he was a puppy. He used to run around one tree while I chased him. He seemed happy to be back, although he did not run like before. He smelled some plants and then sat down near me. The smell of the grass brought back many memories of my childhood and of him being a puppy.
Then I remembered I had always felt guilty because we never took him to the beach and we used to live near one. After deciding to finally take him there, I said: “come on Charlie, you’re gonna love this”. He looked at me and raised his paw, like he did when he wanted to let me know he was paying attention. Then I felt bad. I had this bitter feeling of knowing that someone you love has to leave soon.
The sunlight makes its way through the curtains of my bedroom and I move under the blankets. I have a smile on my face but I cannot tell why. Then I think of Charlie and excited, I look for him next to my bed. He is not there. Of course he isn’t. He has not been there for three years. It felt so real. Disappointed, I try to remember as much as I can about the dream. It was good to see him one more time.
The blue eggshell - Chapter 1 first part - Draft
I am less proud than others of my specie, but I like the dangerous look of my paws.The strength of my peak and claws intimidate many. My race doesn’t use them lightly. Violence is not encouraged where I come from, but it is used if we feel endangered.
There is only one specie that makes us use violence as our only escape: the makkis. They invaded the mountains and ate our eggs, many of us flew to the north, others stayed and fought. For many years we have been trying to come back, but we are fought with cruelty. We want to come back. There is nothing like the mountains, they say. I have never been there.
My mother still lives. She isn’t as strong as she used to and she walks better than she flies. She says she can fly, but in my entire life, I have only seen her flying once. There is something wrong with her left wing, and for the first few years of my life I thought she was born like that, but then, she told me the story of how it happened.
She told me the day I saw an infant Makki getting near us and I told her how harmless they looked like, how I wouldn’t mind playing with them. I will never forget the look in her eyes when I said that: first I saw fierce, then concern and finally sorrow. But then she looked at my face and everything went away, you could tell she was happy to see me there. For some reason, I thought all those feelings were connected with me and the Makkis, but I did not dare to ask.
It all started with their First Great Invasion. We, the folk of the Raffirs used to live in the lower part of the mountain , near the river and would hardly ever go up, unless the summer was really warm and the snow had melted. We do not like snow, it makes our paws wet and cold. There are many of our kind, but my clan is described as “half raven, half panther monsters” by the Makkis. I don’t see anything monstrous in the way we look, I rather like it.
I dont remember much of our escape, only coming out of the eggshell and looking around. There were two other eggs next to me and before I could give my first steps, I felt my mother’s claws hold me tight and take me somewhere. I was put under a tree near the valley and left alone for about a minute until she came back bleeding and smelling like burnt feathers, looking defeated and desperate. Her claws were empty this time.
We never saw the other two eggs again. They were of different colors. She said mine was blue with grey spots and the other ones had different shades of green and red. I avoided talking about this with her. She only told me that one of the eggs, the green one, was stolen by the makkis before we could fly away. She managed to hide the other one before leaving, but she did not find it when we came back to the cave the next night.
For some time I had been wondering the things that could have happened to my brothers, had they ever been born.These thoughts were secret, not even with the infant makkie I would share them.
He said we were friends, but he was a makkie after all. I couldn’t trust him entirely. I couldn’t trust anyone but my mother. I had learned to hide before I could learn to fly. They thought no one had survived in the mountains after the invasions. We weren't supposed to exist, nor was whoever could have been born of those eggs. But I couldn't help to imagine how life would have been like having brothers or sisters.
Mr. Burman - draft
Life would be much easier if there was a manual you could follow step by step. If it was so, Germans would probably be masters of life’s art because of their sense of rightousness and obsession with the rules. But there isn’t one and sadly for those who like structure, human beings are forced to spend most of their lives trying to figure out the steps they are supposed to follow.
Some of them don’t have these concerns and seem to enjoy life with no guidance. Sometimes that brings them joy, sometimes only worries. But for some people this is a matter of high importance. That was the case of Mr. Burman who used to be a man of great success according to his fellows but whose obsession with time management lead to the most obscure passages of mankind.
Mr Burman was what I would call dark-spirited. The kind of person whose expression would not be softened by the most tender things. He was not always like that. Mr Burman had once had a family that had disappeared under unknown circumstances. Everyone who knew him well would avoid any conversation including this topic. You would think that Allan, for that was his name, was a terrible person. But if you were sensitive enough you could realize that somewhere in his face there had been joy, hidden by the weight of many years of sorrow.
Children who met him on the street would not hide their fear. He did not look monstruous in any way, but children could see beyond his proper looks and perfectly clean and ironed outfits. Burman was a stranger everywhere he went to. No one knew what may have caused this alienation from human kind. He was always in a hurry, ready for another appointment, his hurried steps that often turned into running made his old leather briefcase swing. You could tell it had been used for much longer than it was supposed to.
Some of them don’t have these concerns and seem to enjoy life with no guidance. Sometimes that brings them joy, sometimes only worries. But for some people this is a matter of high importance. That was the case of Mr. Burman who used to be a man of great success according to his fellows but whose obsession with time management lead to the most obscure passages of mankind.
Mr Burman was what I would call dark-spirited. The kind of person whose expression would not be softened by the most tender things. He was not always like that. Mr Burman had once had a family that had disappeared under unknown circumstances. Everyone who knew him well would avoid any conversation including this topic. You would think that Allan, for that was his name, was a terrible person. But if you were sensitive enough you could realize that somewhere in his face there had been joy, hidden by the weight of many years of sorrow.
Children who met him on the street would not hide their fear. He did not look monstruous in any way, but children could see beyond his proper looks and perfectly clean and ironed outfits. Burman was a stranger everywhere he went to. No one knew what may have caused this alienation from human kind. He was always in a hurry, ready for another appointment, his hurried steps that often turned into running made his old leather briefcase swing. You could tell it had been used for much longer than it was supposed to.
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