Stories and News No. 967
At least 22 girls have died in a government-run home for abused adolescents, because of a fire that broke out when residents staged a revolt, to protest overcrowding, burning some mattresses.
Sadistic fate, as if for some fire never stopped raging...
Once upon a time there was the first flame.
That burns at the beginning.
But still does, again and again.
It never stops, it’s burning right now, and it will go on.
It have to, damn it, but it must continue.
To show transgressions and aberrations.
The second time it burns inside and it hurts because all the unsuspecting world seems to stop exactly on the skin’s surface.
A cry that lingers to come out.
The tears and outbursts, which is understandable, do not show up.
Maybe they could.
The third time the eyes and throat start to burn, discovering how the tragedy is shared and devoid of joy.
We are many, too many and too similar, but not identical, because the weight of a wound is one of the greatest mysteries.
But lack the words that would give sense and hugs that would turn off the least noise.
It also becomes a chorus of inhuman echoes.
The fourth time it burns when you deceive yourself to have found refuge for what's left of you, and you believe it, you want it, because at the beginning you did not, but eventually you give in and rejoiced signing surrendered to the most fragile idea: the heat exists and it does not bite.
As the fire that burns the fifth time, when you realize that is not the unawareness of the grim story to let the world indifferent.
But it is precisely the same world, with its indifference, to write it and you're just an expendable, appearance guest.
Then it burns the sixth time, sweltering all that remains, because you convince yourself of ever been a highly flammable soul, living fuel for the hatred.
The seventh time is the most paradoxical one because they words and images begin to burn, in the ears and eyes of those who moved, and how can’t you?
Those who mourn, and how should not you?
And those who are outraged.
How didn’t want you?
More than ever recalling that there was once a flame.
The very first that burned my childhood and my future even before writing the present.
The wrong hand to caress.
And the inappropriate breath to respire on my defenseless limbs.
Extinguish that, if you can.
Do it, please.
It will give a sense to the fire, today.
That still burns…
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