Story cover for When I close my door  by JorgeLSuma
When I close my door
  • WpView
    Reads 620
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    Parts 113
  • WpHistory
    Time 48m
  • WpView
    Reads 620
  • WpVote
    Votes 47
  • WpPart
    Parts 113
  • WpHistory
    Time 48m
Complete, First published Dec 10, 2021
I 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 himself and goes inside as a refuge.  The sites are transformed into dreams and possibility, from which it is difficult to separate.  Hope attests that there is renewal, something new after the attacks, the destruction that could cause the crisis, the conflicts of the human being, the fire of living.
 It is nothing more than the emotional constancy of the creator in the face of the monstrous tear of the crisis, his own, the one that takes place in the eyes of anyone.  He tries to project an idealization of intimacy, family, society, as if to reaffirm that the best utopias are those that cannot be named or that are found in the misfortune and simplicity of life.
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Pinwheels and Dandelions by cjacks1124
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I was kicked around like trash on the streets. I was the book that nobody could understand or read, but without a care, they were quick to rip out the pages. I screamed for attention, but time after time, I was ignored. Nobody noticed me, so I made myself at home in my own shadow. They say there's light at the end of the tunnel -- I searched and searched for it, but it could never be found. Therefore, I lost hope as I hid in the shade and endured what seemed like everlasting pain. The little hope I did have was snatched from my arms. My baby brother was my life, and they took my glimpse of hope away. Home. Is that a word? Maybe for a family of some kind, but for me, I never had a place to call home. I moved from place to place. Unstable foster care, fighting for my life in group homes, barely surviving in detention centers, and running away from being mistreated as I made many benches my temporary home. The only thing that I was familiar with was a black plastic bag containing my dirty rags. I am too young to know what it feels like to survive. These are the cards life has dealt me and I am not meant to win; however, I easily lose without trying. It is hard for me to find peace. I am paying for my mother's reckless actions. I am trapped in a world where the sun has died because I am unable to feel love. I am unable to dream. Sorrow is my aura, and the sadness hugs me. My eyes are closed shut by the barbed wire fence from my eyelashes as they prohibit tears from falling. I am damaged. When will the morning come? Did the sun put up a fight last night, like I do every single day? If I can survive the day, I know the sun isn't dead. One day, I will awake to a glorious sunrise. Until then, I hope my brother keeps blowing his pinwheel, and I will keep making wishes with every dandelion I come across. For now, all I know is that everything was taken from me, and the only thing I own is my name.
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