The small Rania makes some with his hands not very accustomed to the swaying light cooking tasks. Cook today: potato salad. Mix the potatoes, beets, celery purchased at the price of gold at the convenience store the small coastal town, carrot (maybe) in a bowl with mayonnaise and salt and pepper. He does not lose his smile this afternoon will return to the capital and want to leave me something to eat it these days, she worries about me, even unnecessarily, my gut could disprove any of your concerns about my (lack of) food, but it's the gesture that I have left that night in my bed while I try to sleep, that night was not raining but I could not hear the noise of the sea. This night I cling to that image: small Rania, just before returning to the capital, prepared in the tiny stack of that little apartment on the second floor under the mango tree potato salad for me. I think over and over again, the only thing that protects me now, tonight I want to escape from the bed, I escape. The memory of Lena stewing, (not stewing
I must say), I must say stewing for me or rather for me, holding me and I almost comforting.
It has been said that the individual is told stories to save himself from the truth, reality, (as TS Elliot said there are only a limited amount of reality that man can tolerate), mankind itself is told same stories, reads himself a succession of stories, scenes, imagined events as certain, recalled with nostalgia the insipid falsehood which is then a kind of potion generator of illusions and delusions among those who can not draw the truth, that truth is not what it was and now is a mix-a "fabric of reality" -. But I did not tell myself stories of these to bear on the night and arrive in the morning, I do: Rania cooking potato salad with his hands smiling, with its vibrant fringe on his forehead, making it just for me, that I'ma be a moment that deserves the attention of someone unrestricted and effort accompanied by smiles and vibrant fringe, as I said before. The stories they tell must be sufficient not to change the reality - what we're going to put Freudian trip here? - I tell stories for comfort, for momentary forgetfulness of the fact that after tonight come the morning light with its intolerable flame with bright notes of bugle cruel to work and share the same light that illuminates the dark corners of my life, from dirt, dust and small pieces of paper, lint from blankets outside, fragrant, light as a spotlight illuminates the walls and I can see the full extent of the outbreak eruptive my failure. And to this day think Rania his death that all he did was a potato salad.
It has been said that the individual is told stories to save himself from the truth, reality, (as TS Elliot said there are only a limited amount of reality that man can tolerate), mankind itself is told same stories, reads himself a succession of stories, scenes, imagined events as certain, recalled with nostalgia the insipid falsehood which is then a kind of potion generator of illusions and delusions among those who can not draw the truth, that truth is not what it was and now is a mix-a "fabric of reality" -. But I did not tell myself stories of these to bear on the night and arrive in the morning, I do: Rania cooking potato salad with his hands smiling, with its vibrant fringe on his forehead, making it just for me, that I'ma be a moment that deserves the attention of someone unrestricted and effort accompanied by smiles and vibrant fringe, as I said before. The stories they tell must be sufficient not to change the reality - what we're going to put Freudian trip here? - I tell stories for comfort, for momentary forgetfulness of the fact that after tonight come the morning light with its intolerable flame with bright notes of bugle cruel to work and share the same light that illuminates the dark corners of my life, from dirt, dust and small pieces of paper, lint from blankets outside, fragrant, light as a spotlight illuminates the walls and I can see the full extent of the outbreak eruptive my failure. And to this day think Rania his death that all he did was a potato salad.
Eye The Lighthouse Bitacora www.heribertorodriguez.blogspot.com 
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