Group Leader
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2019
- Messages
- 104
The one who did not want to be
A man laboriously came out of the front door, which, like a treacherous and cruel creature, holds him back from enjoying nature.
But the effort that separates him from the small park in front of the house, modest but a source for him of immeasurable serenity, always repays him. There, in front of the small cobblestone street, which cheekily separates the park, there are several benches. One of them in particular, he likes to say his own.
The scabrous face, the beard shaved with obvious difficulty, the faint and thin ash hair, define a man who is subjugated by loneliness.
Only his eyes reveal a hidden vivacity, now lingering on the silhouette of a happy child running and screaming in the distance, now on the weak and sick body that he is forced to inhabit.
He sits on the older, run-down bench, the one that is most like him in state and bearing.
Here, on the rough and chipped wood, which slowly torments him as the merciless aging dominates him, he abandons himself to memories. He remembers the sweet and naive joy he felt when he ate with his wife, he remembers the happiness he had given them to buy their own home. That same house that was now bare and empty of affection, which he had now painfully left and did not want to return. Because that house had now become his prison, of which he was at the same time the builder and the caretaker.
So this is his conclusion: the only victim of man is himself.
A man laboriously came out of the front door, which, like a treacherous and cruel creature, holds him back from enjoying nature.
But the effort that separates him from the small park in front of the house, modest but a source for him of immeasurable serenity, always repays him. There, in front of the small cobblestone street, which cheekily separates the park, there are several benches. One of them in particular, he likes to say his own.
The scabrous face, the beard shaved with obvious difficulty, the faint and thin ash hair, define a man who is subjugated by loneliness.
Only his eyes reveal a hidden vivacity, now lingering on the silhouette of a happy child running and screaming in the distance, now on the weak and sick body that he is forced to inhabit.
He sits on the older, run-down bench, the one that is most like him in state and bearing.
Here, on the rough and chipped wood, which slowly torments him as the merciless aging dominates him, he abandons himself to memories. He remembers the sweet and naive joy he felt when he ate with his wife, he remembers the happiness he had given them to buy their own home. That same house that was now bare and empty of affection, which he had now painfully left and did not want to return. Because that house had now become his prison, of which he was at the same time the builder and the caretaker.
So this is his conclusion: the only victim of man is himself.
