For those who wish to read something, I leave here a story that I care much, with whom to my utter surprise last week I won the first prize in a literary competition.
I must say that the thing I was pleased even though it was terribly embarrassing and then I was taken from an inferiority complex and guilt in relation to stories that did not win but in my opinion were much better.
It 's a story that I wrote without any pretension, so, in a sad day, as I listened to the song by Charles Aznavour "La Bohème," which for me is absolutely the most wonderful thing that the music has produced. ..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZvehG_Lgls
E 'clearly inspired by Rimbaud and Verlaine, Rimbaud in the period when he lived in the attic of the Rue Campagne Première ... but the characters are not really them, that is they may be, but could also not be, is a story that talk about anime and so I prefer to remain in an undefined way, only that their poems have marked me like nothing before ...
is not nothing to it, but I hope you like it ...
The city was sad beyond the thin glass.
The air was thick and gray, transparent.
the sky had seemed to end with the roofs and steeples far, only the smoke from the chimneys mingled with his inconsistency.
The muffled whistling cold wind came into the room and reached his heart.
With his forehead pressed to the cold glass he provided for the city property.
In any sad day for a winter without snow.
and feel the art around him, in the wind, the melancholy of those roofs, in regret that he had lived lives far away and that he belonged, the desire to write verses to memorize and proclaim loudly, walking through the crowded streets or sitting on the steps of a church, when there was the sun, bringing with him forever the memory of that sad day 's every winter.
Meanwhile his face remained lazily leaning against the window, his hand clinging to a bottle of liquor with a bitter desperate need.
And he wondered why the mere absence of the sun cause the grip of pain and indefinite apathetic to the heart.
He wondered why he could not go into the streets, mingle with people, laughing, or write, and to return that day, sad for no reason, just a normal day.
He would set the sky for hours that did not really exist.
Those dark shapes of bridges, towers and chimneys far, that they were lost forever in the mist, would set up at dusk, which, with its darkness and its artificial lighting took away the gloom and made of gray days and sad nights all the same, and too happy.
was tired and felt his balance dangerously on the brink, again.
Once again he just wanted to be so far from that room, but could not stop staring in the city from the glass shaking.
be free, run screaming in anger, joy or pain to the sea to the border of a foreign country, and then even further to try something, anything, was always ahead of him and desperately a breath of wind.
Change name not be any more for the world, live in communion with himself.
In the fields, among the reeds, into the sun that dies or the day he was born to find the essence of life, all or nothing, emotion pure soul.
He remembered a time when love was also searched.
He turned up to watch the body nude sleeping in rumpled bed too big for a small attic of a dilapidated building in a street of artists unhappy.
slept, and knew nothing, then took him unspeakable anguish and deaf, because he knew at that moment that they were just two of countless destinies intertwined by life events, history, love or boredom .
In the attic were just anonymous and forgotten by the world, the time sarebbe passato e non sarebbe rimasto niente del loro amarsi, odiarsi, della loro affannosa ricerca di un’illusione di felicità, di quel bisogno disperato e mai appagato, dei loro versi, della loro arte.
Il tempo dimentica ogni cosa senza pietà per i peccatori, e nemmeno per i poeti.
Provò odio per quell’amore straziante di cui non sarebbe rimasta traccia un giorno lontano, un odio colpevole e immotivato e tanto più sentito quanto meno dissipava il sentimento dal suo cuore.
Un amore disperato e violento fatto di passione, comprensione, povertà e dolore, che era inevitabilmente necessario, ma che a loro pareva so different from the happiness of childhood dreams.
With a sudden gesture laid his dusty bottle on your desk, approached the bed and stretched out lazily beside the body of his lover by observing his face in his sleep.
"The soul is not immortal," he murmured in his ear to his companion.
"We're only immortal until our dying day, and I feel that time is so short ... I feel that the world calls me, I can not ignore, I will answer soon, I'll go ... "
" For now ... still ... you can not help it "replied the other waking up.
"Yes, but one day I will go and I will not be, and you forget me forget you and will be as if all this had never existed."
His voice seemed far away and sweetly sad, could not escape the fate determined by himself, even when his decisions, cost more than you would have never found elsewhere.
"I find that people commonly call happiness, I will succeed," he said without really believe it.
Her lover hugged him tight "Where there is happiness, you can not find it by going forward, is just back, and this is impossible when you're awake.
But I do not know these things, I can not answer your questions, I do not know if the soul is immortal, I was hoping you'd say, and now that you did not want to believe.
But happiness ... happiness you never found anyone ... except if we will not really know ... "
closed his eyes.
"Stay still now," she sighed.
The wind began to blow more strongly against the thin glass of the window and the gentle rain began to fall on the city, the ticking of the drops on the roofs filled the silence in the little attic, and not There were no more words between them, asleep embraced.
and sleep all day long that any melancholy, forgetful of hunger, poverty, the time that they would be swallowed up in oblivion, the glory or failure, of the banality of the world out of their impossible love for a thousand reasons and no one in particular.
Another day spent anonymous while two lovers locked in an attic like many others, in Paris, were asleep.
Another day went slow and sad as he came.
Perhaps quel giorno, mentre dormivano, la felicità aveva bussato alla loro porta, e loro non lo seppero mai.
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