El último plátano

Aquel hueco vacío movió algo en su interior.  Le vio alejarse en un mundo de plástico, vendido, de otro.

Aquel hueco le hizo llorar; el tiempo fue el culpable.

 

M.S.

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Aren’t we…?

Once upon a time there was a flame. She was tiny, colorful, gorgeous indeed. Every day she woke up and sat on the same place beside the window with her minuscule legs dangling off the edge, lost in her mind, looking blankly to the horizon. Her heart was made of fire and her brain struggled for existence; there was a huge hole never fulfilled.

Routine mixed up with vacuum, even absence of mankind

Beauty never regarded

One day the flame was there no more. The wind had blown her out. She was diminished without leaving any remains, neither physical nor sentimental. She faded out completely.

This little story of the flame may seem quite rare in the eyes of the reader, but if you stop for a while and think about it, aren’t we minute flames exposed to the world’s fury? Aren’t we subjected to the love of our fellow-men? And therefore, when there is nothing left and everything has been lost, aren’t we alone?