There is a person, alone, leaning against a window overlooking the world, he looks but has his eyes closed, he is unable to see. He hears all the noises in the world: cars that run, children who laugh, those who cry, adults who fight, what they love. The leaves that move resting on the wind, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. He hears everything but cannot hear. He answers everything but is unable to speak. He would like to touch everything but is unable to move out of that window. There is this person who is desperate, but does not want to cross that fine line. Every day he looks, listens, answers. After months she starts crying every night, she was missing something that could not exist for her. Standing on the windowsill he screams, but no one can hear, because he cannot speak. He decides to go up on that windowsill every day, to make his voice heard. And scream, scream, scream. Then one afternoon he freezes with his mouth ajar and whispers. "Is it I who cannot speak, or the others who are unable to listen to me?" The closed mouth, a weight in the void, the hair resting on the wind, the clouds move. Then there is the land, a lot of land. Above, below, everywhere. Its branches sway, the leaves dance forced by the force of the wind, the roots are well planted up to the center of the earth. Every day he listens to the birds singing, the squirrels chasing each other, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. Children laugh, others cry sometimes. Some adults kiss there, in the shade of her hair. The answer comes like a blizzard. It is others who are unable to listen.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 