The Trip By Luciano Doti

The trip. Luciano S. Doti towards time that had stopped talking. He had no expectations. All his dreams had been left discarded one after another.

Indifference was stealing them until now none had. When was that you became that human dispossession, in that caricature who pretended to be a man but did not it? Were not allowed to feel like others; not only the illusion of a better future, but also disappointment for something which does not; because along with the ability to inspire are lost the of disappoint you. It was one thing. I knew that he was alive because the Sun that colaba by window annoyed in the eyes. Then, I had to run the curtain, perform a movement with one of his arms; Yet its members would respond to the order of the brain; ERGO, was alive.

That was all. The movement of the Sun from the morning until the night was their world. The different shades of light within the room. Shadows shorter or more elongated, which provided the solar disk, gave the notion of the time during the day, in the passing of the seasons change perceived him observing the tree next to the window. Have he how many times had seen that tree moving its leaves, and change its color from green to yellow? It was lost on a journey without direction. I knew that he was not going anywhere, but in its current state there was no pain, no pleasure; non existence should always carry implicit suffering, also can carry vacuum, i.e.: nothing. He was lying in bed with the outstretched arms forming a cross. He looked alternately ceiling, wall and the tree beside the window, and not thought about anything. Long before everything was the same. He was immersed in a vicious circle; which again and again repeated the same events; This last was a way of saying, as in reality not spoke nothing.

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