me through the spring, as devastating as each year, perhaps even more this year (but not repeat every blessed time? ... mha the artery ...)
usual lack of time to do anything that combines lastanchezza atavistic that burns a few moments, and the end result is that I have no way to devote myself to me, in the abyss that I perceive distant, alien, as provided through an opaque glass. Not mine.
Lack of stimulation, no doubt, in addition to everything else. That silly and need a po'infantile (very childish, too childish for someone of my advanced age!) That someone play me, for once, and not always the opposite. And the instant realization that my fancy, I realize the absurdity of that, how can I expect to be taken by the hand and amazed, amazed, when I for one feel like the Father of Luthais, building on bench in the Great Hall, a monument that has ceased to live for thousands of years, meat turned into stone, eyes open in darkness and light, and indifferent to one another, everything. The Father in whom all are addressed, for guidance, protection, assistance, but who would think the hand of the Father and take him down from its altar, drag, once again, in life ...?
At twenty I was too proud to let someone take care of me ... not that there was a row, of course, maybe I was just unlucky. But the fact is that I lived in the Abyss, the Abyss, and if anyone touched the walls of the ivory was only to draw, rarely give.
And today, that this state of affairs seems to have consolidated, I regret that there was a Golden Age, or, if there was, was too short, too fleeting, where I was supposed to be a Visits shell from the beach, lapped by the waves, eaten by the sand. Like
dispense love. Like
dispense cuddles.
I like to create worlds and give them away, since it is a practice that I always riuriscita quite well, but perhaps a little too much time I miss a share at least equal, if not passive users of energy of others. And so arise regrets for anything that might be, the taking of conscience of too much time left scroll between me and those people who, in spite of the diversity of age and had been able to offer a counterparty unpredictable, capable of keeping me on the rope , to force me to question at least a basic part of me. Reflections
useless, unworthy of the Father.
But there is an age in which we must cease to be amazed, resigned to no longer be surprised by anything or anyone but the masters of the past literature (when you're lucky) or by nature?
bodies in the tub agitate just like waves in a sea of silk.
It is the only sound that accompanies his night in the dark, when all have retired, when the stone vaults of the Sala imposed on him as a lonely sky, the sky that is only allowed to see. Some nights
Morgana's eyes look out at the portal, to observe it, serious.
Sometimes she trots to the throne, and nestles in her lap, letting his hand, almost automatically, to rise up to play with her hair, while the face remains motionless, thrown into darkness as another of the sculptures that attempt to emerge from the columns of the extreme pleasure and extreme pain.
speaks to the Father, remaining seated on his lap, her little fingers resting on his lap, weaving strands of what appear colored wool.
The child's voice is heard just, what he says is only for the ears of the Father, holding his head slightly bowed over her eyes like wells blacks that reflects the light of the dead who observe the child would look like a starry night.
And Morgan says, all occurring, perhaps a fairy tale, maybe some of Luthais occurrence, and other blind eyes rise from the dust, pose other presences invisible listening, moving in the dark with a hiss of sand.
From behind the throne of the Father glimpsed two, three curious little heads. Three children of the Family of Faraboo, with their big eyes and blacks as the bottom of the bowl, always open the shadows. Making signs with their hands with three fingers, slide the sides of the throne, shyly, squatting on the floor to hear the story of Morgan, not daring to raise his head to the Father.
Bambularas But he felt their presence, and turns to them with the language of their family, even assuming their characteristic way of speaking, like a rattle.
The children look scared, look at Morgan, then seem to take courage, come forward and sit on the steps of the throne, the fresh faces gaunt risen to the Eternal Father and the child, putting back into listening to the story.
Levra gently pushes forward the son of the night, whispering words to mute an instant from his face. And he, like all times without being aware of the ode and favors. Hidden where the darkness thickens approaching the ordination of women to turn to hear the story of Morgana. His gaze lingers with greed in the hair of the child until, near enough, is the face of the Father, origin and purpose of all her attention, it being like the roots of the earth and yet so changeable as if there was a spirit imprisoned. The father sees the child
shadow bow your head that seems to place on top a column of ivory on one side and waves him closer to the long, white skeletal hand. Attitude in the face seems almost benevolent alien, the wound of the mouth raised in the shadow of a smile is not there. With his other hand caressing the head of Morgan, who continues to tell his story with music and voice monotonous, while the small Faraboo carefully followed, clutching each other and whispering softly.
The child that does not exist ', the young shadow, runs between the others like a memory, like a thought escaped. E 'fickle, capricious, but also his eagerness to be recognized in front of the fading magic of the Hall. It stops well, forgetful of himself, his mouth open in contemplating the great creature, while only a handful of them between the eyes together can see it.
It is the voice of the Father now stands, the voice is never heard, that does not adapt the interlocutor, the voice that seems to resonate in the belly of a bronze bell broken, and yet has its own alien musicality. The item that is not of man, not woman's voice with which God spoke in the shadow of heavy flavors, wet the temple ...
A new story, the children clap their hands with three fingers, Morgan slipped to the ground and add to them, nestled at the foot of the Father and raising his serious little face on his face bent down upon them.
tells of a girl in the radiance of a summer morning picking flowers on bank of a stream. The water flows through the pebbles as bright enamel, the grass smells of the sun. The images evoked by the strident voice at times seem to throw the shadows with the grace of an artist working chisel to form the inert matter. It seems to feel really great in the room the scent of sun-drenched grass, flowers, crushed by the bare feet of the Virgin, and the water murmurs among the glittering mosaics that decorate the stone floor, and the birds fill the air with discordant notes . When she raises her arm to wipe the sweat from his face, brushes her hair thin you were attacked, one of the small Faraboo whispers, "Onash ...."," beautiful ", earning a stern rebuke by the brothers. Arc other children in the Sala peep, afraid and yet willing to approach, as only children, of whatever race they belong to, can be. This time, Morgan is getting up from his seat and to collect it, to lead up to the bench and let them sit in silence because they do not interrupt the Father. Children of Lir, the faces and bodies half human, half swan, a girl Feliota, so small that it barely reaches the side of the already small Morgana, with skin the color of the stone when the eyes as blacks s'affossano jewels in the mud, two cubs of the Family Nevashii, one with the scales still delicate mother of pearl color, the other has already passed the suit, and proudly shows off a beautiful mottled purple-blue armor.
small figures slowly take place around the bench, while Coralyn, the moth-boy, who loves fairy tales, has already arrived for a while and you are lying comfortably on a ledge of rock, diaphanous wings gathered around the body and thin face resting peacefully in the arms.
The Father continues to tell his story becomes more real every word. Of how the girl is enchanted when contemplating a narcissus, and how the earth shook and was torn when the chariot of God from the eyes like mirrors came out, bursting into the sky during the day.
The children huddle together, opening his eyes, hearing the thunder of hooves Underworld horse raping the countryside, the deep rumble of the wheels of bronze that generate sparks and burning flames glittering running wildly in the air.
the girl runs away, leaving behind a carpet of cut flowers. Some children
inciting race, each in its own language. The largest of
Nevashii comments, with the air of someone who knows a lot, so that if you eat it, provoking laughter from the others and the lively protests from small Feliota. The Father is waiting for the excitement of children is diminished, before resuming his story. Of the chariot as
chased the girl, and as the god-like eyes took mirrors and forced her to face him. And she sank into the abyss of her eyes, and sank into the chasm that had freed him, driven by the mad rush of the car, his arms stretched out toward the snowy light that was stolen, to the cries of the mother oncoming running down the slope grass and pleaded and howled his name scratched his chest.
Coralyn more lies languidly on her arms, swinging a foot idly back and forth in graceful circles. He likes that part of the story, the one in which God woos the girl without words, leading her in the gardens of his dark underworld, where trees grow to such a beautiful and fragile that even the looks of the Day Care would be enough to break the branches. You're scared, crying, calling his mother in her world, but already the secret of those eyes have lost it for her and nothing could be more like before. Stroll through the trees colorless, among the flowers that have no scent and petals which tinkle like glass. He wanders all alone in that realm of darkness and silence, in the belly of the earth, where the night goes to die.
Her mother goes outside the realm of Day Care, claims his daughter in a loud voice, invoking the wrath of the Eternal God who dared to kidnap her. In vain. The god holds the silent girl in the hall of mirrors of his eyes, without touching the points, just grazing his view, caressing it with the eyes, the rustle of her kissing her eyelids, seducing him with a tremor of an eye.
This part of the children understand little but the elder of Nevashii, watching others with pity, and strutting around proudly holding up the little scarlet crest on its head. The small Feliota silently her doll cradle of mud, his mouth ajar.
The mother does not resign.
His daughter does not belong to the shadows, she's the world of daytime. The god
eyes like mirrors to the woman speaks, speaks to the elders, the girl in the world of Day Care will be until he has eaten the fruit of the dead.
not eat daughter begs her mother, and the voice of the Father, without change, trembling with grief and heartfelt prayer. Do not eat and you will be lost. And the daughter promises, crying, trying to embrace his mother, almost grazes through the dark from all the shaking.
Again the girl wandering in the gardens of the dead, touched by the hands of anything, spied on by countless eyes that are all just a reflection of those of God. He is accompanied, leads the hand showing the wonders of his new home. She is sad, but it leaves kidnapped by the beauty of that world, from the flattery of God, and when he offers three grains of a pomegranate that shine like rubies and even defy the darkness, he thinks that ultimately there is nothing wrong with that. ..
Coralyn sigh, sigh children, while the eyes of Morgaine themselves between the high vaulted ceiling.
So the girl lost the light.
So the mother loses her daughter.
So the dark god gets his bride. But since the Eternals
always protect the Day Care more than they deserve for their willingness to return the girl can for short periods in its old way and the home of his mother, and then the flowers unfold in the world of daytime and damage fruit trees . And when his time is up, and she must return to her husband and his kingdom of shadows, the world of Day Care becomes an arid desert and cold, and every leaf turns to gold and falls into dust.
The story is over.
The children burst into a crackle of excited comments, questions frantic. Do not dare to ask directly to the Father, who is still hovering over them, as a tree of stone on the edge of a clearing. As soon as someone dares to touch the hem of her dress, as parents have taught him, and immediately walks away, following the company already swarming out of the room. Morgan gets up last, launching a last look to the Father, his lips moving soundlessly, only a whisper. Bambularas lower eyelids that gesture, and leaned back against the seat and leave your arms at your sides. Morgana comes out slowly from the room, Coralyn gets up from his position and stretches long before take off and do the same.
At twenty I was too proud to let someone take care of me ... not that there was a row, of course, maybe I was just unlucky. But the fact is that I lived in the Abyss, the Abyss, and if anyone touched the walls of the ivory was only to draw, rarely give.
And today, that this state of affairs seems to have consolidated, I regret that there was a Golden Age, or, if there was, was too short, too fleeting, where I was supposed to be a Visits shell from the beach, lapped by the waves, eaten by the sand. Like
dispense love. Like
dispense cuddles.
I like to create worlds and give them away, since it is a practice that I always riuriscita quite well, but perhaps a little too much time I miss a share at least equal, if not passive users of energy of others. And so arise regrets for anything that might be, the taking of conscience of too much time left scroll between me and those people who, in spite of the diversity of age and had been able to offer a counterparty unpredictable, capable of keeping me on the rope , to force me to question at least a basic part of me. Reflections
useless, unworthy of the Father.
But there is an age in which we must cease to be amazed, resigned to no longer be surprised by anything or anyone but the masters of the past literature (when you're lucky) or by nature?
bodies in the tub agitate just like waves in a sea of silk.
It is the only sound that accompanies his night in the dark, when all have retired, when the stone vaults of the Sala imposed on him as a lonely sky, the sky that is only allowed to see. Some nights
Morgana's eyes look out at the portal, to observe it, serious.
Sometimes she trots to the throne, and nestles in her lap, letting his hand, almost automatically, to rise up to play with her hair, while the face remains motionless, thrown into darkness as another of the sculptures that attempt to emerge from the columns of the extreme pleasure and extreme pain.
speaks to the Father, remaining seated on his lap, her little fingers resting on his lap, weaving strands of what appear colored wool.
The child's voice is heard just, what he says is only for the ears of the Father, holding his head slightly bowed over her eyes like wells blacks that reflects the light of the dead who observe the child would look like a starry night.
And Morgan says, all occurring, perhaps a fairy tale, maybe some of Luthais occurrence, and other blind eyes rise from the dust, pose other presences invisible listening, moving in the dark with a hiss of sand.
From behind the throne of the Father glimpsed two, three curious little heads. Three children of the Family of Faraboo, with their big eyes and blacks as the bottom of the bowl, always open the shadows. Making signs with their hands with three fingers, slide the sides of the throne, shyly, squatting on the floor to hear the story of Morgan, not daring to raise his head to the Father.
Bambularas But he felt their presence, and turns to them with the language of their family, even assuming their characteristic way of speaking, like a rattle.
The children look scared, look at Morgan, then seem to take courage, come forward and sit on the steps of the throne, the fresh faces gaunt risen to the Eternal Father and the child, putting back into listening to the story.
Levra gently pushes forward the son of the night, whispering words to mute an instant from his face. And he, like all times without being aware of the ode and favors. Hidden where the darkness thickens approaching the ordination of women to turn to hear the story of Morgana. His gaze lingers with greed in the hair of the child until, near enough, is the face of the Father, origin and purpose of all her attention, it being like the roots of the earth and yet so changeable as if there was a spirit imprisoned. The father sees the child
shadow bow your head that seems to place on top a column of ivory on one side and waves him closer to the long, white skeletal hand. Attitude in the face seems almost benevolent alien, the wound of the mouth raised in the shadow of a smile is not there. With his other hand caressing the head of Morgan, who continues to tell his story with music and voice monotonous, while the small Faraboo carefully followed, clutching each other and whispering softly.
The child that does not exist ', the young shadow, runs between the others like a memory, like a thought escaped. E 'fickle, capricious, but also his eagerness to be recognized in front of the fading magic of the Hall. It stops well, forgetful of himself, his mouth open in contemplating the great creature, while only a handful of them between the eyes together can see it.
It is the voice of the Father now stands, the voice is never heard, that does not adapt the interlocutor, the voice that seems to resonate in the belly of a bronze bell broken, and yet has its own alien musicality. The item that is not of man, not woman's voice with which God spoke in the shadow of heavy flavors, wet the temple ...
A new story, the children clap their hands with three fingers, Morgan slipped to the ground and add to them, nestled at the foot of the Father and raising his serious little face on his face bent down upon them.
tells of a girl in the radiance of a summer morning picking flowers on bank of a stream. The water flows through the pebbles as bright enamel, the grass smells of the sun. The images evoked by the strident voice at times seem to throw the shadows with the grace of an artist working chisel to form the inert matter. It seems to feel really great in the room the scent of sun-drenched grass, flowers, crushed by the bare feet of the Virgin, and the water murmurs among the glittering mosaics that decorate the stone floor, and the birds fill the air with discordant notes . When she raises her arm to wipe the sweat from his face, brushes her hair thin you were attacked, one of the small Faraboo whispers, "Onash ...."," beautiful ", earning a stern rebuke by the brothers. Arc other children in the Sala peep, afraid and yet willing to approach, as only children, of whatever race they belong to, can be. This time, Morgan is getting up from his seat and to collect it, to lead up to the bench and let them sit in silence because they do not interrupt the Father. Children of Lir, the faces and bodies half human, half swan, a girl Feliota, so small that it barely reaches the side of the already small Morgana, with skin the color of the stone when the eyes as blacks s'affossano jewels in the mud, two cubs of the Family Nevashii, one with the scales still delicate mother of pearl color, the other has already passed the suit, and proudly shows off a beautiful mottled purple-blue armor.
small figures slowly take place around the bench, while Coralyn, the moth-boy, who loves fairy tales, has already arrived for a while and you are lying comfortably on a ledge of rock, diaphanous wings gathered around the body and thin face resting peacefully in the arms.
The Father continues to tell his story becomes more real every word. Of how the girl is enchanted when contemplating a narcissus, and how the earth shook and was torn when the chariot of God from the eyes like mirrors came out, bursting into the sky during the day.
The children huddle together, opening his eyes, hearing the thunder of hooves Underworld horse raping the countryside, the deep rumble of the wheels of bronze that generate sparks and burning flames glittering running wildly in the air.
the girl runs away, leaving behind a carpet of cut flowers. Some children
inciting race, each in its own language. The largest of
Nevashii comments, with the air of someone who knows a lot, so that if you eat it, provoking laughter from the others and the lively protests from small Feliota. The Father is waiting for the excitement of children is diminished, before resuming his story. Of the chariot as
chased the girl, and as the god-like eyes took mirrors and forced her to face him. And she sank into the abyss of her eyes, and sank into the chasm that had freed him, driven by the mad rush of the car, his arms stretched out toward the snowy light that was stolen, to the cries of the mother oncoming running down the slope grass and pleaded and howled his name scratched his chest.
Coralyn more lies languidly on her arms, swinging a foot idly back and forth in graceful circles. He likes that part of the story, the one in which God woos the girl without words, leading her in the gardens of his dark underworld, where trees grow to such a beautiful and fragile that even the looks of the Day Care would be enough to break the branches. You're scared, crying, calling his mother in her world, but already the secret of those eyes have lost it for her and nothing could be more like before. Stroll through the trees colorless, among the flowers that have no scent and petals which tinkle like glass. He wanders all alone in that realm of darkness and silence, in the belly of the earth, where the night goes to die.
Her mother goes outside the realm of Day Care, claims his daughter in a loud voice, invoking the wrath of the Eternal God who dared to kidnap her. In vain. The god holds the silent girl in the hall of mirrors of his eyes, without touching the points, just grazing his view, caressing it with the eyes, the rustle of her kissing her eyelids, seducing him with a tremor of an eye.
This part of the children understand little but the elder of Nevashii, watching others with pity, and strutting around proudly holding up the little scarlet crest on its head. The small Feliota silently her doll cradle of mud, his mouth ajar.
The mother does not resign.
His daughter does not belong to the shadows, she's the world of daytime. The god
eyes like mirrors to the woman speaks, speaks to the elders, the girl in the world of Day Care will be until he has eaten the fruit of the dead.
not eat daughter begs her mother, and the voice of the Father, without change, trembling with grief and heartfelt prayer. Do not eat and you will be lost. And the daughter promises, crying, trying to embrace his mother, almost grazes through the dark from all the shaking.
Again the girl wandering in the gardens of the dead, touched by the hands of anything, spied on by countless eyes that are all just a reflection of those of God. He is accompanied, leads the hand showing the wonders of his new home. She is sad, but it leaves kidnapped by the beauty of that world, from the flattery of God, and when he offers three grains of a pomegranate that shine like rubies and even defy the darkness, he thinks that ultimately there is nothing wrong with that. ..
Coralyn sigh, sigh children, while the eyes of Morgaine themselves between the high vaulted ceiling.
So the girl lost the light.
So the mother loses her daughter.
So the dark god gets his bride. But since the Eternals
always protect the Day Care more than they deserve for their willingness to return the girl can for short periods in its old way and the home of his mother, and then the flowers unfold in the world of daytime and damage fruit trees . And when his time is up, and she must return to her husband and his kingdom of shadows, the world of Day Care becomes an arid desert and cold, and every leaf turns to gold and falls into dust.
The story is over.
The children burst into a crackle of excited comments, questions frantic. Do not dare to ask directly to the Father, who is still hovering over them, as a tree of stone on the edge of a clearing. As soon as someone dares to touch the hem of her dress, as parents have taught him, and immediately walks away, following the company already swarming out of the room. Morgan gets up last, launching a last look to the Father, his lips moving soundlessly, only a whisper. Bambularas lower eyelids that gesture, and leaned back against the seat and leave your arms at your sides. Morgana comes out slowly from the room, Coralyn gets up from his position and stretches long before take off and do the same.
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