Before leaving the island, no matter what the reason we are encouraged, almost all had to feel a strange resistance in the final days, in the hours that were rattling and attachment (detachment from the usual) that convinced us that certainty discernible only for ourselves: it would be impossible to replace. Who
up, find consolation of that nature, "may not occupy my space." Unsuccessful balm, never close the wound that evidence which was torn, or cut to simulate an insert art. It may be our only motivation, knowing that we are going to the irreversible, the second birth, the first death.
In small towns, the movement worked in any other way. To some, emigration was almost blurred. It was the invisibility and resignation to become a murmur and embers, and then shut down completely. One day we had a neighbor, friendly or moody. The next day we had a ghost. Some
dealing with tabular those absences, and imagine the possible scenarios, not occurred. In my town, someone keeps a list and play spectral speculation: "Now he would be doing this, and live there in the house of the woman he left behind, which was intended to accompany him to the end." Each spectra continues to demarcate the areas claimed by the deputies, intentional or not. Yes, because there are bodies which expand on the inevitable: a man who was not born to swing the ax martial encounters with her, to be wiped off the original recipient, and used to cut logs.
Others are comforted by their poor version of metempsychosis, believing that he was beheaded by the man will be restored by the god will be a reunion as payment of the dispossession.
Someone wrote from there: "Nobody knows that each builds its own paradise. All that you crave and not given to you, and to frame it as possible is your paradise waiting for you. It is not worth believing otherwise, a lounge or a pasture full of cheering parishioners. That would at least the underworld. "
Two parallel worlds, many arguments will continue to evolve in this thesis. Here we speak or sing, knowing that we remain silent at the conjectural. An alternate build pages, rites, small victories that should be ours.
be hard to convince us that we are expendable, and that we have been restored successfully. A place decimated by the plague and war do not deserve, do not be redeemed through our disembodiment, we say today. Devastation can be relaxed, but shall not resurrect others.
The island is a curtain pins, which if shown to the light reveals thousands of tiny holes that shines: our absence.
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