How lonely I feel since my father left home! Many years have passed, I know, but I do not know how many. I've been alone since then, supporting over my infinite surface erosion passing of wind. I have refused to leave, because he lived within these walls, and here follow until the time I turn into dust, or until my father returns to find me. There is a possibility that chains not be as heavy as mine and, if it were to escape, come back.
I've never had anyone to talk to, even before my father left, because men seem to ignore the things I say, look at me without understanding anything, showing their faces unexpression blind eye. My experience in life is very short, because I know no other place than this room, always dark, full of dust and neglect since I was alone, and my father's old workshop. The around me are like in an unfavorable angle, which makes it impossible to look at me or show my truth. I do not know. I remember seeing them when I removed the white sheet covering me that day when I was chained to the wall, but was this one time. However, I recall quite clearly: they were all similar to me, but each expressed a different feeling. Some were old, sad, somber, others, however, were self-satisfied, sweating with their forms sublime music, aromas, laughter, joy ... Always wanted to know, but it was not possible. As soon as I was released from that gag impenetrable white wall I was chained to the eternal in this remote corner where I slowly fall apart. I do not know what to feel them, oblivious to everything in their own cages, but I guess I will crush this very loneliness that oppresses me.
Why my father that I covered with white cloth before me here? I do not know ... perhaps he could not see the path that would lead me back to the shop, preventing escape might someday, or perhaps just did human to follow a ritual that I will never understand ...
remember better times, like one day my father and a beautiful woman's eyes stared at me, hoping to find who knows what my secret answer. I also recall with nostalgia, when each morning came into this room a woman with white hair, and opened the windows to allow fresh garden aroma filled the room, I especially remember when my father came to me, and within hours my pain ended inconclusive; other times when, with his creative genius on, he walked slowly in front of each one of us, sometimes smiling, sometimes with the tired expression, rejoicing in their successes and ignoring our own faults ... yes, I remember all these things, but they are all so old I do not know if it really happened or if I invented to not feel so alone.
After saving, my father was very proud of me until the end. Brought to this room at some of his friends, whom, their faces in front of us, "alluding about this or anything they liked, or disliked, but I know that nothing included, because they have never been able to unlock our secrets . But my father was not well: there was nobody better than him to understand ... However, in spite of knowing fully, no matter how could love, let alone here in this gloomy corner in this room of neglect, allowing our destinies into the hands of random time.
One day years ago, many years, my father met examine your routine. By then, his visits became less frequent. At that time, his friends no longer came, or came into this room, white-haired woman opened the windows to ventilate the air charged closure. That's when I realized that my father's face changed, becoming an expression of fatigue similar to that of their silent suffering fellow closure to my sides. His smile did not reappear, and the brightness of their eyes, and the will of their gestures ... getting old ... perhaps the oil of his life was spending a little with each one it created.
After a long absence, I can not say how long was therefore unaware of the extent exact time, "my father came to visit last. I sensed from the beginning that something was not right, he no longer walked on his legs, as he usually did, but was carried in a chair with wheels. The eternal passage of time had faded. With a grimace of pain, using what little strength in his arms was old, rose from his chair and walked slowly toward where I've always been since I moved here. Laid eyes on me, almost with nostalgia, touched his chest with a wrinkled old hand, so different from what I saw in my early days and, after issuing a soft whisper that I did not understand, he collapsed on the ground. He remained there for long, I do not know how much until several men came looking for him. I thought it was going to stay with us forever, a prisoner in that horizontal wall by an invisible chain, but tougher than what keeps us prisoners to us ... it was not ... came the men who covered his body with a white sheet and took him away ... only I knew what I was going to happen. I knew they were going to transport a gloomy room like this with colleagues on your side who never speak, no more visits than the rust of years. I expected an eternal solitude of ice, which does not weigh much once we got used cope.
I've so much time here, I can not know how much has happened. I only remember my father's face, and, perhaps, he also agreed to achieve mine. Maybe someday escaping her room gray and can come to me free. However, there is the possibility that those who took him on his last trip did not take off the white sheet, to avoid recognizing the way back to where their children are undone, or, who knows, to follow a strange human ritual never get to understand ... chains may be more tender than ours and, after breaking them can return to pick us ... I do not know ... fate is uncertain ... but will still be here, waiting, holding my chains, supporting my solitude, so long as I stay a little color in my life ...
Why my father that I covered with white cloth before me here? I do not know ... perhaps he could not see the path that would lead me back to the shop, preventing escape might someday, or perhaps just did human to follow a ritual that I will never understand ...
remember better times, like one day my father and a beautiful woman's eyes stared at me, hoping to find who knows what my secret answer. I also recall with nostalgia, when each morning came into this room a woman with white hair, and opened the windows to allow fresh garden aroma filled the room, I especially remember when my father came to me, and within hours my pain ended inconclusive; other times when, with his creative genius on, he walked slowly in front of each one of us, sometimes smiling, sometimes with the tired expression, rejoicing in their successes and ignoring our own faults ... yes, I remember all these things, but they are all so old I do not know if it really happened or if I invented to not feel so alone.
After saving, my father was very proud of me until the end. Brought to this room at some of his friends, whom, their faces in front of us, "alluding about this or anything they liked, or disliked, but I know that nothing included, because they have never been able to unlock our secrets . But my father was not well: there was nobody better than him to understand ... However, in spite of knowing fully, no matter how could love, let alone here in this gloomy corner in this room of neglect, allowing our destinies into the hands of random time.
One day years ago, many years, my father met examine your routine. By then, his visits became less frequent. At that time, his friends no longer came, or came into this room, white-haired woman opened the windows to ventilate the air charged closure. That's when I realized that my father's face changed, becoming an expression of fatigue similar to that of their silent suffering fellow closure to my sides. His smile did not reappear, and the brightness of their eyes, and the will of their gestures ... getting old ... perhaps the oil of his life was spending a little with each one it created.
After a long absence, I can not say how long was therefore unaware of the extent exact time, "my father came to visit last. I sensed from the beginning that something was not right, he no longer walked on his legs, as he usually did, but was carried in a chair with wheels. The eternal passage of time had faded. With a grimace of pain, using what little strength in his arms was old, rose from his chair and walked slowly toward where I've always been since I moved here. Laid eyes on me, almost with nostalgia, touched his chest with a wrinkled old hand, so different from what I saw in my early days and, after issuing a soft whisper that I did not understand, he collapsed on the ground. He remained there for long, I do not know how much until several men came looking for him. I thought it was going to stay with us forever, a prisoner in that horizontal wall by an invisible chain, but tougher than what keeps us prisoners to us ... it was not ... came the men who covered his body with a white sheet and took him away ... only I knew what I was going to happen. I knew they were going to transport a gloomy room like this with colleagues on your side who never speak, no more visits than the rust of years. I expected an eternal solitude of ice, which does not weigh much once we got used cope.
I've so much time here, I can not know how much has happened. I only remember my father's face, and, perhaps, he also agreed to achieve mine. Maybe someday escaping her room gray and can come to me free. However, there is the possibility that those who took him on his last trip did not take off the white sheet, to avoid recognizing the way back to where their children are undone, or, who knows, to follow a strange human ritual never get to understand ... chains may be more tender than ours and, after breaking them can return to pick us ... I do not know ... fate is uncertain ... but will still be here, waiting, holding my chains, supporting my solitude, so long as I stay a little color in my life ...
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