heart pounding in your chest like a fist on a pillow. Thought he would die because of the tremendous shock to croak worrying about that silly expression, with that half smile and narrowed eyes of a hanged pushing a bill lottery with both hands. But it was his last day, one can assume that he still had much more to endure, each covering of boredom the old sadness that was part of his life like the moon discovered in the back during childhood .
The fact that the lottery ticket was the most remunerative in the history not release the deep-rooted in apathy, while it is true that for a few months the strength of the event get to rescue him from an ordinary everyday life, the simplicity of miserable routines, fortune would take on wings in the sky of fantasies fulfilled to be desired in Edens where money is God and the possessor the master of God.
But it happens that the writer not worth describing that time as being stressful for him to be boring the reader who does not know any story about a nouveau riche? of someone who suddenly becomes a millionaire and it came to the shores of happiness happy to discover a world that is necessary to colonize, lucky to be installed offshore who can not grow merely to take possession and fed up trying to extinguish the joy of burning memories of the shortcomings of the frustrations.
After some time the protagonist, if done, would become some kind of Robinson pleased with their belongings and not waiting for the boat of provisions, with that which so sorely lacking in these summits: the truth, the real thing, the indifference, if not ready probably ruin the country, have dried up the orchard and the emptiness of loss with the boat desperately dream of returning to his old life, vulgar routines, the simplicity of the tiny existence.
The writer, as is said, do not want to write a story repeated a thousand times, stories of freed slaves who merely graze among its riches stories of those who yearn for the yoke, the soothing irresponsibility of the slave, to the comfortable dimensions of the truths apparent, the comfortable residence in tradition.
a writer who would write the wonderful story of a sailor who is not afraid to suffer a new shipwreck, that of someone with a steady, day by day, is shaping the map of your emotions, write about what could be the only free man on the planet, that was won himself before conquering the world, that fears nothing, nothing you want, write, for example, about a man who left his home, leaving the door open and then to bury their gold drew a hundred maps to one hundred real throwing water bottles equal one hundred different in hopes of finding at least one dreamer worthy of your wealth writing about someone who gets rid of his fortune to deliver bundles of cash at the airport trying to blow air into the sails of the real traveler in that it prefers to forward to the future, rather than return to his village sleeping in the heat of money hidden in your mattress, but ... although it seems that the writer is Almighty, that makes and breaks his fables, which, as one God of the universe can create infinite worlds, sometimes, the creatures, their characters show, do not believe in any god, because not even believe in themselves when the reader discovers. This could happen to a man blessed with the biggest prize in the history of global lottery, and maybe it was for this reason that rebelled against his creator tearing the ticket for not having to conquer, not to have to leave their home, leaving the door open, not to bury treasure and distributing wads of cash at airports as you would like to write to God.
sometimes happens, the characters are revealed, forcing the writer to write their truth, their own history, which generally do not want to be protagonists of anything because they are fed up with the eccentric whims of fortune, of immeasurable events, of heroic feats of the tremendous demands of their creators.
Most just want the writer hear their prayers.
Photo: Chema Madoz
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