Part 4
Part 3
Part 2
Michelle had never believed in a presence
beyond her own feelings. She had never let herself be carried away
by impossible dreams. She only desired those with some chance of
success. But her pragmatism was not without imagination; her
imagination had only a different location, and she could not cross
or overlap it with reality.
She loved listening to music and letting herself be carried on the wave of imagination, but when the music ended or the book closed, she also finished the poetry attached to them. Never cross fantasy with real life, she thought. Because rationality is always the loser in this dispute, and she would never have allowed that to happen. Her mind would close, and her emotions would be stored in a drawer, ready for the next occasion.
But, unexpectedly, in recent times, she hasn’t been able to close that drawer, and her fantasy was following her closely. She found it in the smile of a child, in an old person sitting to take the last sun of autumn, even in the smell of bread from that shop on the way to her office. Every situation of this kind, at first only the source of a pleasant sensation, now triggered in her strange thoughts and the desire to close her eyes and let herself be carried by that wave of fantasy.
Even that time during the screening of a film, she had to run away from the cinema for the strange sensations triggered in her. It was an old black-and-white movie in which the protagonist appeared to be talking to her out of context. When the camera caught him with that hat from the old days, he seemed to want to ask her something. She had closed her eyes not to see those expressions, but in the darkness of the room and her mind, he was even more present—always with that hat and his hand outstretched, inviting her to get up and go with him. So, she ran away from the cinema, not because she was afraid of that strange romantic dream but because she couldn’t accept a dream outside the context in which it was supposed to be.
Autumn had begun, and it had dressed in its best colors. The way home in the evening had never represented a moment of poetry. It was just an asphalt strip covered with puddles and poor trees enclosed in strings gnawed by time. But in those days, the leaves laid out like a carpet at their feet managed to make them feel united, in the impression of being in a dense wood.
That night, while she watched the street, Michelle felt the fantasy move inside her. It was pushing her to build a suitable frame for those images. Without realizing it, she was taken away. The trees became much taller, and the leaves at her feet began to form an immense soft-colored carpet. Closing her eyes, she imagined walking barefoot in that forest—beyond the tops of the trees—beyond the tops of the tallest palaces until seeing the lights of the city so far away to confuse them with the stars.
It was the sound of an ambulance siren that opened her eyes again and brought her back to the ground. She looked around. She had never run away with the fantasy and superimpose reality. She shook her head, stretching her step to escape. She came running home like she was being chased by some dangerous maniac.
She loved listening to music and letting herself be carried on the wave of imagination, but when the music ended or the book closed, she also finished the poetry attached to them. Never cross fantasy with real life, she thought. Because rationality is always the loser in this dispute, and she would never have allowed that to happen. Her mind would close, and her emotions would be stored in a drawer, ready for the next occasion.
But, unexpectedly, in recent times, she hasn’t been able to close that drawer, and her fantasy was following her closely. She found it in the smile of a child, in an old person sitting to take the last sun of autumn, even in the smell of bread from that shop on the way to her office. Every situation of this kind, at first only the source of a pleasant sensation, now triggered in her strange thoughts and the desire to close her eyes and let herself be carried by that wave of fantasy.
Even that time during the screening of a film, she had to run away from the cinema for the strange sensations triggered in her. It was an old black-and-white movie in which the protagonist appeared to be talking to her out of context. When the camera caught him with that hat from the old days, he seemed to want to ask her something. She had closed her eyes not to see those expressions, but in the darkness of the room and her mind, he was even more present—always with that hat and his hand outstretched, inviting her to get up and go with him. So, she ran away from the cinema, not because she was afraid of that strange romantic dream but because she couldn’t accept a dream outside the context in which it was supposed to be.
Autumn had begun, and it had dressed in its best colors. The way home in the evening had never represented a moment of poetry. It was just an asphalt strip covered with puddles and poor trees enclosed in strings gnawed by time. But in those days, the leaves laid out like a carpet at their feet managed to make them feel united, in the impression of being in a dense wood.
That night, while she watched the street, Michelle felt the fantasy move inside her. It was pushing her to build a suitable frame for those images. Without realizing it, she was taken away. The trees became much taller, and the leaves at her feet began to form an immense soft-colored carpet. Closing her eyes, she imagined walking barefoot in that forest—beyond the tops of the trees—beyond the tops of the tallest palaces until seeing the lights of the city so far away to confuse them with the stars.
It was the sound of an ambulance siren that opened her eyes again and brought her back to the ground. She looked around. She had never run away with the fantasy and superimpose reality. She shook her head, stretching her step to escape. She came running home like she was being chased by some dangerous maniac.
You'll Have My Love Until
the End of Time - Incipit
the End of Time - Incipit
Wood of Plane
Part 1
Blues Ale Publishing
April 2023
Paperback:
ISBN 979-12-81450-01-1
Pages 274
Target Price: $ 11
E-book Kindle
ISBN 979-12-81450-02-8
Target Price: $ 3
April 2023
Paperback:
ISBN 979-12-81450-01-1
Pages 274
Target Price: $ 11
E-book Kindle
ISBN 979-12-81450-02-8
Target Price: $ 3
Fairy Tales
Poems
Novels
Wood of Plane
