(continues from the previous one, look at the menu)
Minutes were passing whilst we were coming back, me not seen, to the stop where we took the bus before, waiting for a sign. And then it came, so we hopped on another bus, this time going to the opposite direction. You were imagining or expecting it, I can bet. You're so sophisticated that even the least narrative devices can't hide surprises you haven't yet discovered in full, more or less.
While you're thinking, the city was in the moment which is too late to call it night, and too early to define it morning. The stop arrived, he remembered it though he went there just once or maybe twice or three times. Who cares?
He thought he was late, as always. But he was not, nobody was there, like in a bad dream. He was looking at the shop window of white goods on the other side of the street, just in order not to think about his life and why he was there in that moment, having abstract thoughts about those objects.
The only thing that made sense was the question he wanted to ask her whenever she would have come down, opened the door and approached him, looking in his eyes for an instant. A moment which would have made him forget what he wanted to say, like it eventually happened shortly after, when he crossed the street.
They started talking, someone more, someone less. Neither of them had the idea of where to go, so they started walking, and I was with them.
She was wearing her pyjamas underneath everything, worn when he was tergiversating abouth what to do on the bus. If you, reader, are thinking of being the one in her pyjamas, maybe you're wrong, this is a so ordinary thing that you can't ever imagine. Maybe it's not something you hear that often around, but it's actually something many persons have done, more or less, like to welcome back someone gone away. It's true.
Surely it's not something to be boasted about among your friends. Sometimes someone succeeds, and despite all, she decided to go and see if the only place she thought of was open or not, at that time of the morning. And it was, luckily. And in a way it was full of people. He started walking backwards, weighing up the beauty of the tree-lined path they were going through among words. They got the feeling that life wasn't like they imagined, sometimes. Hateful, I mean.
They walked looking for people passed by then, in vain, even when they talked about their lives. As everybody does, they weren't aware of the fact that even for those instants in their present would have arrived the moment of the crystallization, in the hereafter, unexpected. They spent good and short moments among lightheartedness, talking about the past and confessing future plans, on the short and on the long-run. But there was something more in that moment, something out of time; and both of them noticed it, I think.
Then it was late, though it was so early; we were going to the bus stop, always the same, as if there were only that one upon the whole universe. He decided to go back, to the stop closer to her house, the one with the white goods shop on the other side, to be clear. Just to waste time, to stretch it for some footsteps more, because you never meet anyone quite like you, but when it happens this is the best thing you can do. Before the separation, which would have diluted into nothing the words and the motions till then said, till then made. He felt something in that first and maybe last hug, in which he lost himself.
Therefore he didn't understand the last words she was saying, he was gazing into space, as always.
We got on the bus without thinking about what he was doing, his mind was totally elsewhere. Only the eyes took back control, finally, and they saw a back going away. If only this time he had tried to look to himself he would have regarded himself as pathetic, whoever he would have impersonated in that look he was giving.
But it was impossible and he didn't care, finally under a new sunlight of a day already begun. The same which was shining on a bitter return, but not lonely: people were going, and someone was coming back, like him, however clearly more drunk.
An untitled song began to play in his ears, note after note. He listened to it whenever he wanted to pacify with the world, or whilst he was jogging, a few months before. The fact remains that I was pretty tired after all those ups and downs. You should try to walk in my shoes, with all those codes and laws, among other things.
The second law states that it's impossible to disregard the fixed limits someone has. Sometimes it doesn't care, sometimes it's different.
You should go back once again, it was written on a torn piece of newspaper I left on the seat next to him, when I passed him by and got off the bus at the last moment, exactly like in a normal life scene. Haven't you ever seen anybody getting off the bus?
"Hi -she said- long time no see, isn't it?"
And then they smiled meeting up again, and they smiled kissing each other, you would imagine; but who could possibly know?
Minutes were passing whilst we were coming back, me not seen, to the stop where we took the bus before, waiting for a sign. And then it came, so we hopped on another bus, this time going to the opposite direction. You were imagining or expecting it, I can bet. You're so sophisticated that even the least narrative devices can't hide surprises you haven't yet discovered in full, more or less.
While you're thinking, the city was in the moment which is too late to call it night, and too early to define it morning. The stop arrived, he remembered it though he went there just once or maybe twice or three times. Who cares?
He thought he was late, as always. But he was not, nobody was there, like in a bad dream. He was looking at the shop window of white goods on the other side of the street, just in order not to think about his life and why he was there in that moment, having abstract thoughts about those objects.
The only thing that made sense was the question he wanted to ask her whenever she would have come down, opened the door and approached him, looking in his eyes for an instant. A moment which would have made him forget what he wanted to say, like it eventually happened shortly after, when he crossed the street.
They started talking, someone more, someone less. Neither of them had the idea of where to go, so they started walking, and I was with them.
She was wearing her pyjamas underneath everything, worn when he was tergiversating abouth what to do on the bus. If you, reader, are thinking of being the one in her pyjamas, maybe you're wrong, this is a so ordinary thing that you can't ever imagine. Maybe it's not something you hear that often around, but it's actually something many persons have done, more or less, like to welcome back someone gone away. It's true.
Surely it's not something to be boasted about among your friends. Sometimes someone succeeds, and despite all, she decided to go and see if the only place she thought of was open or not, at that time of the morning. And it was, luckily. And in a way it was full of people. He started walking backwards, weighing up the beauty of the tree-lined path they were going through among words. They got the feeling that life wasn't like they imagined, sometimes. Hateful, I mean.
They walked looking for people passed by then, in vain, even when they talked about their lives. As everybody does, they weren't aware of the fact that even for those instants in their present would have arrived the moment of the crystallization, in the hereafter, unexpected. They spent good and short moments among lightheartedness, talking about the past and confessing future plans, on the short and on the long-run. But there was something more in that moment, something out of time; and both of them noticed it, I think.
Then it was late, though it was so early; we were going to the bus stop, always the same, as if there were only that one upon the whole universe. He decided to go back, to the stop closer to her house, the one with the white goods shop on the other side, to be clear. Just to waste time, to stretch it for some footsteps more, because you never meet anyone quite like you, but when it happens this is the best thing you can do. Before the separation, which would have diluted into nothing the words and the motions till then said, till then made. He felt something in that first and maybe last hug, in which he lost himself.
Therefore he didn't understand the last words she was saying, he was gazing into space, as always.
We got on the bus without thinking about what he was doing, his mind was totally elsewhere. Only the eyes took back control, finally, and they saw a back going away. If only this time he had tried to look to himself he would have regarded himself as pathetic, whoever he would have impersonated in that look he was giving.
But it was impossible and he didn't care, finally under a new sunlight of a day already begun. The same which was shining on a bitter return, but not lonely: people were going, and someone was coming back, like him, however clearly more drunk.
An untitled song began to play in his ears, note after note. He listened to it whenever he wanted to pacify with the world, or whilst he was jogging, a few months before. The fact remains that I was pretty tired after all those ups and downs. You should try to walk in my shoes, with all those codes and laws, among other things.
The second law states that it's impossible to disregard the fixed limits someone has. Sometimes it doesn't care, sometimes it's different.
You should go back once again, it was written on a torn piece of newspaper I left on the seat next to him, when I passed him by and got off the bus at the last moment, exactly like in a normal life scene. Haven't you ever seen anybody getting off the bus?
"Hi -she said- long time no see, isn't it?"
And then they smiled meeting up again, and they smiled kissing each other, you would imagine; but who could possibly know?
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inferiore o superiore del testo.
posso contattarti? boh chiocciola indiestar.it