Stories and News No. 787
In a Texas school a 14-year-old named Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing to class a homemade digital clock he built, mistaken for a bomb...
Somewhere there is a drawer.
I have no idea how large it is.
And I have even less of how many things are there.
Made of uniqueness and wonder.
Call them inventions.
Call them normal stuff, for those who are not and never will be trivial.
Call them also bombs.
Because even if you will strive to turn off the love for the change of the one making fly everyone else, you will not get another result.
That makes the flame on the wick.
As long as no one will be able to pretend it does not exist.
There are of course time travel machines by people like Ahmed, full speed souls, only “guilty” to kneel at the side of the inadmissible sky.
But there are also the others in the drawer, resting.
There is a mirror that reflects only repressed emotions and invincible feelings, created by a young girl with prohibited sexuality fusing hearts survived the Third World War, which began some time ago: the few equals believing to be many, against the different one unaware of being the most.
And there is also the effort of a dark boy accused of being out of place on the white pentagram. A fragile leather mask, crushable just thinking, able to dye the only color that not even a lifetime might show.
The tint of the desire than you never realize, but at the same you will pursue.
Until the last day.
Of your life itself.
In the drawer there is also a normal pen.
Yeah, only this.
Zero fancy leaps, this time, because reality draws what you see.
Take it as well and begin to write what may rejoice there where it hurts.
Because this is what the child’s ink gives: relief where it burns whatever should be not even touched.
However, do not forget to put it back in its place.
Because the kid who fell victim of the slaying love has made it for himself.
But that's not means he is not generous.
This is the story of a drawer.
I do not know how vast its belly is.
And I do not know how many things you can find there.
Covered by regrets and illusions.
It would have been inventions.
It would have been common stuff, for those who are not insignificant and never will be.
It would have been even a strange kind of bombs.
And the day when the alleged weapons would have blasted.
You would have sold any moment of your time.
In order to stay there.
To enjoy the spectacle.
Of the fake.
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