Twenty s
because I was alone, where would drag him his life and his loneliness, he left the cabin and went to the starboard deck, avoiding abrupt steps, through the rooms and the dark with the lightness of air filling the lungs, looking for something (someone) to himself, perhaps, because who could intercept it, but he was alone, and was the only equally among all similar.
Francisco sensed loneliness, no one else was walking at that hour, secretive, almost like a spy (Although he was not a spy). To anyone but Francis might have happened out of the cabin and walk in the dark cover that night too absent, too lackluster. Maybe if the haze, still high, would have allowed a glimpse of heaven, then ... Would he have accepted a company suspected? But it was blue black, darkness, silence, too restricted to one alone and helpless on the cover of Maria Fioravanti. That solitude, silence, were not human, or even acceptable to a human, but were certain doubts; Francisco doubt even now, even his being a human, a man needed the other, the company the enemy, fear, and Francis, though he feared the loneliness and fear that founded the absence of God, preferring to feel that way, unique, equal and just. Do you prefer? Which of the possible answers was the lie? It is clear that God could not exist, it was impossible to exist because otherwise never allow Francisco suffer anguish that will not allow him even to light his pipe and human knowing, and lonely, and anxious. God was a being obnoxious, but if there was, why it took them with him? Do Francisco have doubts about God, or simply was angry with God? I was angry that there was no doubt, and anger lasted years But against whom was this anger, against whom, if God was, God was an absurdity, it was nothing, was absent, as he was for the rest of the men who did not see and did not know, for the rest of the humanity that he knew nothing of a man alone and distressed, named Francisco, who was smoking on the cover of Marie Fioravanti night. But he was, he was Francis., The only man on that ship. Existed.
Francisco "exist?
would have liked to have the strength of one boy who believe absurdities called God had wanted to record their convictions to fire in the soul, so that nobody could wrest even he, Francisco, the existing.
Francisco was willing to die and kill for the cause, the idea that there was no idea but nevertheless it was. Well he was, and thinking it felt better, even superior to others like it, but it was angry that absence, that pale voice now and then resurfaced and pushed him into the abyss, into the mist that now down on the deck and could not see beyond their own nose, and for seeing that he saw nothing, because beyond his nose was a cover and a path to the cabins but not see it, because solitude and silence were only demonstrating that he knew to know about the noise and the company then his spirit until it dwarfed the size of a walnut. And he felt bad, felt the worst of all others, the last of the scale, a wasted man, not even a draft man, and that smallness, like greatness, was proportional to the nothingness of their Faith Each time, as now, that Francis suspected a tear that would be impossible to heal, he remembered the poor and impoverished states and lying repeatedly and took over the doctrine of men, doctrines, ideas scratched denial ideas, founded his skepticism as he had taught his guidance, using the words of the enemy to justify own, and lit his pipe catechumen ...
And there, amid smoke and loneliness, simulating blindness, he resorted to his soul with the hope of seeing.
And then he felt better, in the end it felt better.
be why, when leaning on the railing of the deck, imagining, knowing that beyond the fog and the night still was the sea, the same as during the morning saw was gray or blue, imitating the sky determining the existence of a color in the sky ... knowing this, he began to mourn.
and silently wept the first tear, the irrestañable, and remained silent for the rest ...
... Who cries, he asked Hope. Who cries the pain, the worst pain? She felt that torture alien and unseen, felt and acknowledged, was equal to him, the silence was not a shield, because there were tears on the wet winding wooden deck invisible, reaching his bare feet, tingling in your skin in the buildup to his soul, and there in the soul, the center of his chest, bounced and made a serious eco, vibrant, durable. Who cries? It was a pain like yours, so I felt him and, without knowing it confused with yours. It was she who was crying, she was the one with his eyes still dry poured the tears for no reason. Why she was crying, why a woman would have liked Esperanza mourn. He would not ask more, would not let his words for fear of an answer, and returned in silence, as he arrived, the cabin thirty-five, which would lie down and sleep, believing that she had cried.
would accept the error, and then you would be wrong.
Perhaps there never was
even when Hope had no reason to mourn, she was where he belonged, with people who wanted, went to a land that promised everything, and America was great, was new, immaculate, rich ... and unknown. Why
cried, who wept, no one had reason to mourn in the Maria Fioravanti.
Nobody.
But she cried, somebody cried.
looked into the night, into the mist, and closed the door ...
... noise was a little dry, and yet heard Francisco.
Twenty
If it were possible to hear a voice approved, or a sign, a colored image, foreknowledge, which indicates that the road is this and no other, that there is none, that should not be afraid to climb those hills, and came across the stones, as were placed there so that the path is a path and not an ideal of plain overwhelming invention of easy slopes and without challenges. If only we could answer no awkward questions and limits to the maxim that between two points is the shortest distance which covers a straight line herds depleted, they take our time, we steal forces. Rodeos ... if at least there is someone to tell us that they are also necessary, because otherwise we lose the possibility of absorbing the different perspectives. If there is that someone or that something is better than us, so as to leave no doubt of his word ... if we could warn that someone or something that pushes us and harangue us and makes us the lines ... Looking back, I look at the path traveled, watch the point where I'm stuck and everything conspires against my safety. Here, contained by the limits that I bought for this space that draws me forward, I can only walk in circles to avoid reinventing the goals exhausting march. I am a needle in abject quadrant, repeating forms, times, words, thoughts, I am who looks at you and walks away, who insists on walking for the mere pleasure of walking, while elsewhere, or in this same, but in other self, my voice keeps me running to the facts, accomplishments, to the ways I want to observe and soñarlas away, fearing that, once in them, no longer satisfy me or encourage me to seek a new port. Moon, my moon, it rejects me, Luna, I'll follow, I look and I lose. Luna, Luna, Luna.
*** Only the creaking of the wood. Just that, nothing else was. Lucio hoped the silence, immobility, retained the unperturbed black with their eyes open. Lucio thought of tomorrow, what would you do tomorrow, so now, today, could not sleep. Tomorrow would be like today, as today was yesterday, and detesting the continuity, tormented by the question what tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the same, and Alma would lack that equality and girls. They would not, but the penalty would be similar. Because they, too, with them under one roof, he looked at his hands, feeling young, watching their time differently, that yesterday that the recall was today, that dream today that yesterday was different and now kept his memories nonchalance. Same, same, same everything, tomorrow would be the same, beginning with force, whistling, perhaps hoping for a glance of hope, but with the later fall in the hole, and you would not mind the girl, not even the future or Alma, or tomorrow or the girl he would not mind anything because he would know that everything would go well, and by the afternoon accept the infinite similarity. What do tomorrow to change the world, his world, its limits barely bought a port now distant, now promise that maybe someday, maybe, just maybe, with pockets full of snuff best return for them, by the past, to recreate that equality was heavy and made him happy. And it was unhappy about the consciousness of the gulf he had opened behind him. Lucio
thought today morning and could not sleep. Smoking would not have cared if the next day, when smoking, it would snuff, then Lucio, thinking about tomorrow, the desire to stand and kept thinking about how to break the fucking routine. Lucio thought
morning as limited by the forms and at the same time as something abstract, tomorrow would be the time of day, early, morning would, in his mind, the sun of the East going up the hill, his mind refused time beyond, not thinking of America, on the morning of America, the possibility to engage in trade of tooth-puller, for example, or going to the countryside to cultivate Argentina. I thought of throwing tomorrow afternoon, assuming that the afternoons and evenings despair exist forever, or directly negating existing, but denying them to believe that by not seeing them would no longer be there, always late and heavy, always to the west and falling. Tone thought tomorrow, how to change tomorrow, confining itself to the times powerful, to promotion, the only good time of day, one which recognized in him the strength to change. Thought and could not sleep. Yet there was light behind the fog when he heard the screams and cries.
"What, what happens asked Antonio.
"Who cries," said Lucio.
- Huh? "Woke Giovanni. Liberato
still asleep. And dreaming. And smiled.
Twenty Twenty and
