cry in flames
Lupita Rios Mayorga
"It Was Almost three o'clock, the hour
MOST stagnant in the day or night"
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Carson McCullers
's three in the morning and not sleep restlessness. No wind blows. The pulse quickens, there is still fear and wants to escape the heart through the mouth. Crowded teeth to prevent their escape. The silence is really detestable. It is preferable to the air, rushing the trees whip and imitates the steps of a man lurking outside the balcony. The naivety closes his eyes to try to sleep, but again only deafening silence. By far some whispers that turn into moans, barely audible but heartbreaking. Fear freezes.
Head turns. From the bedside table come from the book escape. Cover your head with pillows of little use because they slip through the soft barrier. Suddenly a hand on the shoulder and facing a terrifying vision eyes. A scream would escape. The spectrum cap with his hand the mouth of the viewer petrified and is confined to the chest. Cold, languid, dressed in a tattered gray coat. His eyes, abysmal pits, break off any semblance of value.
With a force that is awarded by the weakness that makes its appearance, the terrible image pulls his guest's hand forced, and started the journey. In what seems a second, we arrive at the destination. The site is eclipsed. The wind blows and spins violently tears with crying, and tiny claws with which the heat scratch the skin. That's hard to breathe! The air is tight in the throat and a complaint off is the only relief offered by the torso.
They move everywhere, out of the casuarina trees and shrubs. Flying between the crows and buzzards, cross the solid bodies as sighs. White souls, lurid fantasies. Close your eyes worth nothing, yet they can be seen. The visitors' arduous march to the earth, rocks, sinks and complaining piteously the ground at each step. Nearby
have seen a white farmhouse with black ribbons hung on every door. Spectral phone, his voice hollow and foul breath whispers while nods: "They inhabit the hopes and dreams wastage. There are short-lived the days become eternal in despair. " He listens and sweat, just springs, is lapped by the blizzard, which spirals up roughly gray powder blend into the slipstream of the souls that wander by the people who know the smiling faces; " this is a luxury for those who know how to cherish the faith. " Dry
body, dry serenity thirst needs water. Guess the horrific entity thoughts. They head to the river steps. The path is illuminated by beams inconstant moon. She whispers back: "This light never fails to enlighten. One day Selene devoured the sun and from that moment everything is an eternal night. " Now shut up and points to the river, which like everything else there is, dragging his death with perennial water channels. The condensed water runs and intensely purple. When taking it slips through his fingers tearing-drop by drop.
She turns her eyes toward the infinite and with a mournful gesture speaks again: "land is here, in the absence of drinking water also our lives, our lifeblood. The land is never satiated, eat and drink everything voraciously everything he touches. Here you can flourish only sadness, pain and agony of having lived alone for life, without ever having the joy of seeing at least one morning perfumed have felt the sun and birdsong snuff ears .... It does not exist here. " The cries do not cease , exhumed his oils and break down the heart, and a sugar figure it crumbles easily with your fingers.
There coals in his hands. The body is illuminated with tiny fires that envelop and consume. Chest pain and tightening the squeeze violently. Crying triggers in the eyes, bitter, salting whole skin. The soul is whipped with grief and terror that dipped delirium.
Crying relieves heartburn. Battered flows, driven by loneliness and helplessness. The dark-time companion of such affliction grieves with a caustic smile whispers "It was enough. This does not forget, always keep that in mind as if we met again, there will be no other opportunity. "
Dawn and the sun gets warm in the room, washing the night. The green leaves of the trees are wet with dew and tears the pillows.
0 comments:
Post a Comment