Here is a story I wrote a year ago that, I set myself a single object and tried to embroider a story around this object was a notebook, here's the story I tried to build with this word:
The Book Between the Walls.
In a display of courage that finally I opened my notebook, the pages tangled in a jumble of words chewed and spat out on the innocent candor candid of fabric. My hands wandered over the sharp edges of thin strips of paper fluttering in the air space of a minute and crashed heavily on the past. The non-transparent neon
threw a faint halo on the table, while outside, the rain beating against the windows to burst, flooding my eyes with mist and darkness. The weather had to be suspended, people all around were frozen in mournful stillness, my thoughts arose in ceaseless waves on the shore of my consciousness, overwhelming me with questions futile to limit the unnecessary. However I
continued to turn pages tirelessly to find my booty, an unfortunate blue writing sparkled in the center, trying the subtle white paper. And my hand was trembling all along, pencils, hidden in the shadow of the kit seemed to me ajar send signals of distress. I captured one, grabbing him with all my strength as to cross my creative will. Then its mine slipped on the sheet ice, skating gracefully on the snowy lawn, leaving behind a trail of black letters and bright.
The assault of silence now seemed less oppressive, I felt good. The world I turned around again, I was trapped in a bubble earthquake, taking refuge from the frenetic activity outside.
Then gradually as I went through the pencil lines, I turned the pages, darkened again and again.
Suddenly the door opened in a destructive crash, I was roused from my world by a force so wild that j'hurlais alone in the middle of the room, her eyes mesmerized by the silhouette coming towards me and whispered a hollow voice:
- You write in a vacuum, Jack, you gotta get your cell now.
New Harribey Tristan.
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