PRESA I served only one hand, then I left. Someone finally I freed from that evil stopper I created a terrible circle his head .. choked me, hold me, I removed the air and movement.
And I went well.
Mine was a transparent plastic cap, at least I could see and get an idea of \u200b\u200bwhat life could be. My poor friends of the shelf above instead of the caps had blacks, were in the dark, he felt they did not complain. Those close to them we had them red, long and narrow. Well, I must say, made her look more slender and curved, so it often happened that someone falls in love and take away with them. And the same goes for those with colored caps, so that caught their eyes and more than a thousand fingers ran like crazy with each other, the touching, the grabbing, tearing them away those cases and gave them breath. I saw them at that time my friends bought a special force and then went to touch something white .. And they do not understand, leaving behind a trail of the same color of their cap, but I could not feel joy or pain if they tried. I have made thousands of dreams and nightmares the first to experience firsthand. I dreamed that that was the trail of her dress for the wedding veil between them and the hand that he was in love, or that, in contrast, had their death, which slowly disappeared.
One day a girl came in stationery with a backpack on shoulders. He began to look at the department of exercise books, focused only on those who had the covers of cardboard and were not too thick. He opened them and caressing the pages, he held it between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and rubbed in a circular motion to test its consistency. He chose a book by its cover, dark red, ocher-colored pages with rounded edges and thin, then with a big smile came over to us, I felt that I would take with him. Determined, I pulled out the metal cage that held me prisoner and I joined the mine in his notebook.
was winter and she protected us from the cold wind hug and compressing the chest. I could feel her warm breath and her hands were cold. My viaggio cominciò quella stessa sera, lei mi dette la vita facendomi toccare la punta della mia testa sul primo di quella impalcatura di fogli e dandomi una spinta con un movimento della mano. Le sue dita si incastravano perfettamente con la linea del mio corpo e io la seguivo come ci aveva seguito il vento, come pattinando dolcemente su una pista di ghiaccio, facevo piroette, piccoli salti, tornavo sulle righe del foglio e poi venivo sospesa in aria, vicino alla sua guancia e appoggiava la sua testa su di me. Da lassù vidi che anche io avevo lasciato una scia, mi sentivo accaldata, un po' stanca, ma bene. Mi resi conto che la mia anima era quell'inchiostro e ne avevo lasciata una parte lì, su quella pagina, la avevo fatta assorbire dalle fibre del foglio. That book was limiting me. I could not love him. I could not help wishing that her hand always make me go back there to love, to release the substance of my life. When she thought and kept me on her cheek, I prayed to be able to reach her ear, and beg her to talk to me live again, to get me to travel again, let me go back to that book, from my lover. That night I could not. Closed it. Then he closed me, slipping back cap that I have ever hated as much as that night. I think I hated her too, his hand. What gave me life and me in a moment he denied. What a horrible night. I took up the next day. His fingers were very hot, had kept close a great cup and colored in with a dark beverage that smelled of bitter, good, and that same smell that I hit several times on those fingers and that I would have warmed up and I have always surrounded every morning. Before he opened the book, then at me. I was not to touch a blank page, but the same as the previous evening. And yet I sat, not just touched the surface, I was just over. This was the first time you repeat made a habit of early morning, before he continued to write, and I wake my hand again together, making a walk through the lines and curves that I discovered what are called letters, which then she and I, if not disconnected, now I know that they become words. Broken down as follows for my trip after he did a little jump. I followed the path that gave me the straight lines and infinite in front of me and on the basis of 'energy boost that gave me my hand movements could be sweet or violent at times were difficult, more agile and brisk. I realized that everything depended on her, the girl, not from his hand, but from his head, his heart. The words he wrote were, joining a meaning. They were an expression of what he felt, his weaknesses, his passions. I learned to feel like I have already directed his hand as I grabbed. From fingertips felt his pulse, when slower when more harm. And the more calm, because the words were mild, as fast as the words were harsh and bitter. Even her breathing changed, sometimes seems to push itself between the lines, some mornings the smell of coffee was stifling, and my movements were very rapid, jerky, and in the evening I was exhausted, almost could not wait to plug in my riparami . But I realized that I needed, although I was a mere object that what I did for her was important. Once returned to his room late at night. Me and the book we had already been placed under the long silver table lamp on the desk. When he entered, threw objects chaotically her purse on the table, I missed each other desperately, and its braccia cominciarono a dimenarsi per cercarmi. Nemmeno si sedette. Quando mi trovò mi afferrò di scatto, ansiosa di aprirmi, fece cadere a terra il tappo. Mi scuoteva, le sue mani tremavano. Trascinò con la pesantezza di un braccio che rilascia le ultime forze il quaderno vicino a sé, lo teneva aperto appoggiandoci la testa, di lato, tanto che il rossetto andava a sporcare le pagine. Scrivevo vicino al suo viso, con difficoltà, le pagine si facevano via via più umide, non riuscivo a controllare l'inchiostro che si perdeva tra il foglio e le lacrime. Si addormentò su di noi, con noi che ci prendevamo cura di lei. Le pagine avevano avvolto il suo viso in un candido abbraccio e avevano trattenuto la rabbia che in quel momento era riuscita to realize because of me, my sap of life. You forgot to replace the cap and so that night I could see what he had written. He spoke of a trip. He wanted to leave, leave a city, I think it was the city where we were, he said he was not living the life he dreamed that he would only be satisfied in there, instead she wanted to be happy "really." He wrote the word "risk," wrote that trying to realize a dream is a "risk". I do not know what it means, but when he wrote these words he did quickly, has a point and she stopped a moment, then dropped a drop from wet, on the sheet. I think the explanation is coming few lines later, when he said the step was that risk for his freedom. He said "evidence", he said to himself, or maybe I told him. He felt like he had groped and immense fear. After this confession his eyes began to close and head to China.
I thought that if he was afraid was because he wanted to go alone, I wanted to tell her that I was there, I would have followed anywhere, I would be forever with you, I would be more helpful to clarify his thoughts, to eradicate them anger that could be inside his head and vent it on a sheet of paper. I would have liked to say, I would have wanted to write.
The next morning I had blurred vision, ink who had been on the tip had dried and kept me from breathing. How I wish they would open their eyes and you notice me who want nothing more than to say all those things I thought during the night, to assure my support. But I was paralyzed. I could not, choking. When he woke up when I took her hands and began to write back to me was unexpectedly awesome. No longer flows of goods, every time he touched the paper felt pain, and his hand was pressed even harder for me and had thick body piercing. I was dying "really." She realized this before I did. It was to be regretted, tried again and again to revive him, gave me strength in making me do the doodles dei foglietti sparsi. A me girava incredibilmente la testa, riconoscevo di stare scrivendo sul quaderno ma seppure mi sforzassi era difficoltoso cogliere ciò che scriveva. Chissà come stava, chissà cosa aveva deciso, chissà dove sarebbe andata, chissà se mi avrebbe portata con sé. Lei, come me, doveva muoversi per essere felice, doveva muoversi per vivere. Ed io ero fondamentale per lei, perchè con me viaggiava lo stesso, quando le pagine del quaderno si spiegavano come ali di un gabbiano e lei danzava là sopra con me seguendo una musica che sentivamo solo noi, un ritmo che veniva dal suo cuore. Viaggiava nei suoi sogni, si spostava di città in città, alla ricerca della vita, attraverso la mia vita.
Quel giorno gave me a gift. He stopped to shake and stir me up the bloody sheet, I rested for a moment. He took his cup and prepared the coffee. Surrounded by the aroma and close to the sweet embrace of your hand, through all the pages of our book, going along with all the words, all the dreams, all the trips. Lost in the happiness of memories, closed my eyes.
