It’s not my fault if my life everywhere floods.
Couldn’t it stop raining?
Stephane Chaumet
It’s raining this morning. I feel the cold in corridors where many people are drizzling. I find comfort in the wall. I search in my bag for a notebook to record the hours, to write the pages that only time will come to value in its just extent. I am in a hurry. Moving on before the weather gets worse is a good decision. In this town, some drizzles never cease to bother. Downpours of words that sometimes hurt and sometimes kill. A deluge perhaps, I enter the bar, on the radio is the music of Joan Sebastian. Some enjoy their cigars; others laugh exaggeratedly because of the alcohol. I, as in the song, feel like the wolf. An animal disguised with the psychosis of the absurd. I feel like my eyes are turning red, attacking innocents with a good fever. To drink the blood from the necks; to safeguard the beast. My stomach is cold and palpitating. The steps dominate me and just... when I extend my hands, I remember the hug they gave me today before leaving home. From this point on, I feel like a statue, firm and prudent; I can speak without words, like a book with notes that are difficult to interpret. Anyway, I am accompanied to the door. The book of my life grows. When I go out into the street it is still raining. I run into the rain and put the wolf to sleep. I believe that there are incredible, extraordinary, pleasurable things and I can get anywhere with the certainty that it is difficult and delightful to do something incredible.
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When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
