And look! Come look at me! You who walk, whoever you are. What it costs you! If only to mock, to insult, to shake his head like that vulgar and violent, which leaches disgust mixed with contempt. But at least look at me. Do not turn a blind eye. Why do you think I should be reduced as well? Why do you think is destroying my dignity as well as nature has destroyed my body except for a look? Also left. Although the theme that no one will lay more on me with desire. If anything, with scorn. Enough for me. I'd be happy not to go unnoticed. How long has happened to me in life. Because no one has ever put on me a look thirsty. Is painful, that poisoned slowly the soul and makes it implode into a depression and dry off. Walking through the streets, markets, and realize that you are not even worthy of a head movement. Why do I see them when they turn their heads and all the rest when it passes one of those, yes, those girls who have everything to showcase and do not deny anything. While I
instead. From a young age. Since girls have been convicted. From a clumsy body, shapeless, bloated. Not that I ate, no. I was hungry for sensation, and even food. But this was not. No.
I grew on him like a cancer, I ruined over this mass of swollen and rough that I hid in the world. And I have remained a prisoner. But at least then, I was a girl in the country, at least then there were those who ran after me to insult, to mock. I felt alive, painfully present to the world. Then, like a fog Friends, lift pale and wan, and more and more brave, so I disappeared into existence.
The transfer to the city. Studies. Useless I say. They have added a drop of happiness to my life. Only knowledge. And with that, if anything, I increased the pain. Then a grim work, repetitive, detached, in a cubicle that separated me less like a deep ditch, from colleagues who were flooding across the partition wall. A voice on the phone. Then even that. Then take early retirement. Years of working loose in a formal greeting and wrinkled, seasoned with indifference and scorn. Even that day were able to overcome the barrier of my body to descend into the depths do not say, but at least below the surface and try to understand. Used to understand them? What can I serve? What if you do not need today, for whatever, you're finished: removed. Fine work, fine undertaking.
And still the loneliness.
What I'm not old. At least not outside. Not anagrafe. But inside they do. Why does not feel loved, it burns. But not with that fire that consumes and burns eternal, as they say love is, that I never knew, even as a child. No. Not that. I
of that inflamed Clear heat and violent, that of the ovens, that cream that reduces to ashes, leaving no hope. And now I have lost hope, I say love, but only a mild warmth. Even hypocritical. I would be fine. I would cheat a man, whether to strip of my property, however those who have accumulated over the years of silence and seclusion, I rivestisse even for a single moment of affection and too genteel, blatantly fake. Even sex. Also that I'd be happy.
And so I reduced this to be a clown, this prostitute soul: to put off this rotting flesh, it is rolled on itself confusing start and end. There shame in all this? Yes, because now these ruins is no different than anything that can burn my privacy. Everything is grace. Deformity. Yet I feel I step on my dignity. And do not give a damn. For whoever fills the mouth with the word probably has never suffered my pain has never been alone. I do. Always. Locked inside the prison of a body of exaggeration that has prevented me from being an escort. To see. To understand.
But what is there to understand! In this era that emphasizes the beauty and chases relentlessly, in this age that glorifies the body and is afraid, I see the terror in their eyes, the terror of being like me, to finish like me, to be trampled, put in a corner. I do this I understand. And only now I rebel.
And watch me come on! You who walk, and now faces the opposite side of the head with hasty gesture and theatrical, as if to teach me, to condemn, to humiliate. More than that? I could be more humble than that? Why do not you understand? Why not explore? Why not make an effort to overcome that barrier sciapo your superficiality, your horizon so narrow and closed, unable to approach the life for what it is: not a dry frame, but a film without end. With only the beginning and end credits ever. And you instead you stand there, trapped in the moment who escapes, and you do not understand that instead stay, stay forever, and they extend in all directions. As my life. Like my flesh that melts my figure in a history of total solitude.
Look: make me a bit of esteem, my in myself I've lost it. Let me think, even for a moment, I can leave a faint trace on this earth, that I may have touched a heart flutter and the memory of another creature. That was not in vain into the world. That will not be silly to leave.
No, it will not work either. It did not help anything to get to the bottom of the disgrace to the crater. Until mud exhibitionism. Even this was used to find a thread of hope, a stream of light that is able to return a bit 'of the future to this cluster of depression. Maybe you just have to look for the latest look, that of terror, when melt my life on a track. Or under a lorry. Affirming the right to be looked at at least while I dissolve.
You can also affect the other high chiefs
and blogs
the foietton : the business as a serial novel that speaks of
sale of the joys and pains : the blog differences between women and men in family life
You can also affect the other high chiefs
 |
| mother of sorrows |
and blogs
the foietton : the business as a serial novel that speaks of
sale of the joys and pains : the blog differences between women and men in family life
 |
| gaze of Lazarus |
 |
| when there is love |
