The flowers provide me with colors that I can’t see. These gardens are all overgrown of an inescapable sorrow. The final harvest is going to fail, unless I become the land in which the seeds were hidden. A blue bus is parked at my house, in front of my red door; but I can’t realize precisely where my house indeed is. How could I reach God’s place?
Like a good condemned, I dont cry anymore for bad purposes. Am I evil? So what?! The corridors seem to talk to me, like dead walls impose themselves to slaves of the life’s obstacles. I’m not going to cry a river. The river is dry within myself. Maybe my last tear will be sufficient to feed my spirit’s starvation. Indecent stomach retaliation.
While people are passively, or naively, sleeping, I’m delighted in seeking for the next chapter. Life become my book, that I’m never reach the definitive end. A inner child convulses by the reading. Could I be that child reading myself? Given this magnificent book, I came to this perplexed conclusion: there is nothing waiting for me, there is nothing awaiting for us. The existence is an eternal waiting.
Autor: Lucas Vinícius da Rosa.