All lives are as they are, are sad.
chair, the tired and recent grandfather spent the second of its existence. From a prime position watching the bookshelves, uniting as if by magic, floor and ceiling of the room. They were stored from older volumes, covered with dust, until the book purchased that morning. All perfectly situated in an order comprehensible only to him.
poor man's eyes were sunken in a face not as experienced as their wrinkles would have us believe. A smile was missing a few teeth, or perhaps had come to believe that he was missing after having had so many times that terrible nightmare. The window library let in a lot of light, but it was five o'clock in the afternoon and winter was approaching.
The man, lost in thought, he kept his eyes on the young tree, a few yards from the window, silent. Not a child in the street, not a bird resting in its branches, or a gust of wind shaking. Suddenly, he recalled that someone had once said that every life, whether at the moment, is sad. Yes, someone had said many years ago.
recalled how he saw the trees when he was a child. Then the world seemed much bigger, taller, more unattainable. He remembered how he hated the winters, those fights with her parents to arrive home later than five. Remembered, vaguely, having had a life that was not hers, a life set, based on the schedules and responsibilities which seemed to pursue, without having achieved ever. He remembered all the books I read those afternoons that remained on the couch.
Suddenly, the nervous man stirred in his chair, afraid of what would be breaking a glass of champagne in the lounge of the neighbors. Great, had lost his train of thought. And still could not remember who it was said that.
(AM)
