Cuento D Ingles

A Story the lives
We do not enter lives of other people, most of the time we break in. I know we tend not to think good of robbers but they might also be good people. I suppose we have to feel emptyafter “break ins” as such but sometimes it works exactly on the contrary, somehow you get more. Is it because they took everything you did not know how to throw away but you always wanted to. It is anew green day. I am sure all river gods and spirits are happy. Sun- butter light is coming through my window, sun light that I do not really like with its inquiring intensity. I can always draw thecurtains but I am not that kind of person.  I cheer myself up by making breakfast, drinking coffee slowly and taking time with everything that normally takes me 5 minutes to do. It doesn't feel rightbut it feels weekend –like. The thoughts seem to be light but words somehow make them heavy, like putting stones in the bag made out of organza.  All I need is a little glam and then I can erase theprevious night, the chess board, the heart beat. I take a piece of paper to fold a paper heart and yet, even paper cuts. I wonder if a paper cut can leave a scar. I hate weekends for so many reasons Icannot name even one. I unfold the paper and fold it again, is that what they tell you to do  to regain your balance with the world and within yourself. I fold it differently but the lines from theprevious shape are still there, here you are! a living proof of paper scars, nothing really goes away, paper folded will never be a neat while sheet again. I make a plane, a bird and a heart again. Itlooks wrinkled but somehow happy, not wrinkled and old but it seems to enjoy being folded and unfolded again. Paper hearts do not break but they burn, they do not beat but they cut, they are not evenred, they are just blank. I look outside of the window, the light is still the same, the coffee has gone cold. When someone says : “my coffee has gone cold”, it feel like something dramatic must have...