I slid along the rough concrete wall until you collapsed to the ground. Maybe now I'll find a little 'rest, a bit' cooler.
hate those endless summer days. The heat penetrates heavy and sticky, it sticks on you and you do not spring more, even for a moment. From when you wake up all you do is that little gasp still air are not yet saturated with moisture. And you feel it, quest'umidume dense and dripping. You enter the lungs, wraps them in a sheath sticky and suffocating crop and you breath in your throat, and you drown. Drown and try to grab the air, that puff of oxygen, which allows you to move forward, until the next breath.
And so every day. And I do not know what to do. I sit here, exhausted and without energy, against the wall, looking for a bit 'of coolness and relief. But the hours are slow to move, they seem too slow, lazy. Each time you drag, stretches to infinity, hardly ever run. It must be crazy, closed in these four walls, virtually without ever being able to get out. Sometimes I find myself to walk hugging the walls for hours. A series of steps slow and regular, always equal to themselves. Follow each other, mingle with each other, leave no trace. It is a meaningless walk, emptied of its intrinsic essence. Why not get you anywhere. He has been deprived of the opportunity to reach a goal, even the most insipid and banal. And besides, for those like me there is no realistic goal, there's no journey. No place is waiting for us, if not the last.
A slice of orange light is projected on the floor, drawing the plot of a chessboard. Even the sun is behind bars. Everything is hidden behind the gray steel bars: the rectangle of sky blue, the blinding light of the scorching sun, the trembling air. All this has prevented me out of my reach. Yet it is always there whenever I raise my head.
I am also imprisoned, imprisoned in this cell and trapped in my fate. A fate still and immutable as the world I see out the window, as the days that follow one another as black and white photocopies.
A life that is not life. It's like being in a dark room and look outside to see that outside, if there is an outside, everything is black. Nothing exists because everything is equal to itself. Nonmi'm not complaining. What's done is done, and I can not accuse anyone if not myself. I myself am condemned to Mars. Nobody forced me to do what I did. Then it seemed the right way, proved to be the fastest but only ... but also, if we think, the shortest, the one that took far less.
The wait is unnerving. It is to die for. The terrible thing is no doubt about what will happen next, is the uncertainty about when to come after. The desire that this anguish, this life comes to an end is unusable now a constant presence.
And maybe later, after all, the air will come back fresh.
Perhaps, beyond the window, there will be something for me.
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