I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.
Is it the blood that makes us the same? Does the blood relate to us? Do mother cells bind us or separate us? The ways out of a parasitic heart. The windows of the soul become opaque and without curtains. What does our existence prove if the value is given by fake smiles? The dark side of our biology. The pain of collapse. The taste of the night. The noise of an affection built from the unknown past. It was dawn when my heart stopped beating. nd a defibrillator did not and did not serve life. I was sorry to leave this planet. But I had become different. I had become a lonely man. Plants and birds kept me company. But I no longer had my mother Earth. no longer saw a grain of sand in my shoes. I was not honest with anyone. They asked me how I was and I always nodded. We who are love. We who are hate . We who are all things together , The worst and the best. We who are on the razor’s edge that does not cut. Which remains suspended above the sun. We who are good people. We are screwed by ourselves. We are not different and finite in infinite worlds. We are weird things stuck. We are the good and the bad. We are forgotten fibers. We ended up being divided. Seeds fall into the ground and do not grow. Seeds fall into rocks and grow. We are rocks that receive water and do not serode. We must always be alert to defend the world. nd spread our wings without anyone seeing them. We are Alpha and Omega without eyes. ( FAIRY QUEEN)
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 