All the dreams of mankind – part 5 : Memories of sharing- K. B

All the dreams of mankind – part 5- Memories of sharing

All the songs of real love, not lust ,all the voices singing in a choir in his mind. But, and but, in the butt. Lurking in the shadow, the voice of harshness and brutality. Pangs of disprized love, and in the evening, the sun still shines high. Messages and cries, and youyous of joy. And in the darkness, there is still light, like a lantern. But enough of him. He is far from reality. And he cannot free himself from the education of his parents. He cannot watch all the movies that he wants, and all his acts of kindness are not enough to reverse the machinery, la « maccina » he calls it, and the smell of waffles does not awake in him any appetite. Slowly, he slips accidentally, alchemically in a dream, and he closes his eyes, and the sun on his brown face dissipates somethings and clears the mind with softness. If only he could be served, and joy was brought to him on a platter. A craftman he is, and in his enchanted workshop, he creates the beautiful things that he will never sell. Memories, sometimes make his hand shake, and he has to stop to recollect himself. Oh, yes , memories, of deep love, he hasn’t know anything else. All is forgotten, to the day that rises, and to the birds that sing. He remembers singing, with full throated ease, and he doesn’t envy it, he always sings his song of peace and love, and sometimes, the darkness invades him, and he has to battle hard to see the light again. He is not perfect, far from that. There is her, and there is her, and there is him, he can see their faces in his mind, they shared something special, something warm, something courteous, something elegant and refined. They spoke, and they spoke, and with each word they said, they would cherish the delight that comes alone, as if something beautiful dawns on them from heaven and protects them, and they would slip and fall into a shared day dream, sometimes virile, sometimes, he doesn’t know a thing at all and the world of unseizable things, that speaks through them, becomes strong, and their words leave a glowing step, in that world. And the concern and the conscience for the things that matter open its wings, and they fly over the forests and the woods, until the midnight chime rings to tell them to leave and go back home. Yes, He remembers, him, and him, and she, and him , and she, but now , all that is but the past, only the memory revives something from the present, as if he was gently touched by peeks of gold that inject in him whirling colors before leaving him on the shore, abandoned. Sometimes, he wishes for virtuous circles , he doesn’t know what will become of him. Sometimes, he feels ill, and sometimes, he springs from his bed like a kangaroo to go run in the Australian desert, after some lost rabbit, just to scare him off.




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