Beyond the dense dust in the atmosphere of the time, a fragment belonging to an old mirror, now shattered, over the 'wet condensation twilight which is certainly not a reflection of my watches me.
is unkempt, has no light in their eyes is off. Looking good, his eyes glimpsed the deep wounds of the soul who does not use a cloak to cover the puddles to the passage of a sweet girl but himself being trampled without regard. And he does not even matter, now accustomed to the pain can not help but savor it and accept it as one welcomes an old friend, without a few words. It is a reflection that took over the vacant look in his eyes the hope of something for him out of loneliness, but suddenly, like a wall collapses on itself, has become aware of the madness and the transitory nature of that beach so beautiful and distant, where those who are alone with himself in soul and heart can not have access ... Yet that reflected
looked me straight in the eye, and wears my clothes and my expressions. And I realize that this reflex is more harmonious than it sounds, because it is a reflection and the reality is far from appearing as rosy. It can not be mine, because he is at peace with himself, but what is the subject of reflection and the subject of reality can not find peace and accept to live in the reflection ... What really should be my internal reflection, as opposed to the exterior that appears on the shard of glass, it has nothing to do with the serenity and acceptance ... The struggle between external and internal, however, is so vague and inconsistent that gradually no longer be distinguished, mixed object and subject in the triumph of peace and war ...
Reflection ... by Emanuele Bignardelli is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License .
Based on a work-at publication racconti.blogspot.com .
