Historias De Universos Paralelos

Tawny As A

Tawny as a pebble, tawny as the sun. 

The English is beauty because is weird. The English is weird because is beauty. And the beauty is found on the strange things. Like a rock that glow with the light of the sky. A sky covered with soul and stars . The stars dropped everywhere, here, there... And the tears of a child that forgot how to smile.

The water that drown every single part of my brain, the liquid of the time that melted on my head. Is the one that once begin as the memory, that ended being nothing more but a thought, an echo of what really happened. Because as long as the sun in the horizon bleed on the soil, on the ground, on the sand,  shadows, shadows as tawny as a mouth will grow, a mouth that talks and talks, that yell and cry. As long as there is glow on the sky, as long as the bleed of the light rise, is when the truth and memory, will melt again in my eyes, painting everything in the crystalline tone of water, making my head turn around over, over and over again, creating an escapism, an imagination.

In a little instant the bleed stop, the shadows disappear and the one that long time ago was nothing more than a tawny sun, vanish in the grey torment of water and clouds. The liquid stop melting on my soul, on my brain. It stops. And everything that can be found now is the clattering sound of the little drops falling from the sky. Like the tears of a child, like the tears of the dead, in life. As if it remembered how life was like, but not wanting it back but pitying for everyone here that still lives. Trying to help taking people all over the world, but only getting fear, yells and whimpers as a response. Hiding then in the tawny shadows created by the sun, and now, just hiding on the windows when the bleed of the sun stop, and the cry of the sky begins.  

And when it ends, when the sun is gone, when the tears stop, the night starts with the million glows. The stars creating an aura, almost authoritarian, ecclesiastical. Almost. The glow impregnating every single person with mystic and comforting feeling. The liquid in the mind of people flooding again, falling of the body, reaching the floor and spreading further. As if the humans where actually silver rivers, each of them with different memories and thoughts, different life, different deaths. And inside the house, one of that human, with a soft and tawny skin, with silver long hair, is holding the skull, the one that once belong to the death, the same death that old long haired man once fall in love. The death giving him a skull, his skull as a present, a reminder of their mutual love, and a reminder that one day, they will finally meet again. But for now, the death will only stare on the shadows, waiting impatiently to be the turn of his old lover. And the man, waiting for his moment, the moment when the death, his old lover, his old companion leave him to his own end. 

The English is beauty because is weird. The English is weird because is beauty. And the beauty is found on the strange things.