Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Ut Dorms With Private Rooms
Devotion Mercury
Crowd Sometimes I roll on the floor between the legs of furniture, like a fragile insect dazzling collision with an obstacle let go dozens of spores, which were lost in the inaccessible recesses of floorboards, cracks in the dark, with Lint and accumulated dust.
Now, my weakness is otherwise inexplicable: this reluctance and laxity that prevents me from even wield the pen in this attempt to leave a brief testimony. And not destroy the fragile, thin glass cylinder containing mercury, and each night shows my weakness with his mysterious hair elongation. For years now I have this thermometer, we affectionately lodge in my left armpit in the evening, while I recall those blue days, when he rolled the ball hidden silver, protected under the big table Chippendale, who still keep and whose legs ending in claw strangle an opaque sphere and worn. How many times placed in the bowl of my tongue folded this insect bright entranced me in its freshness and left impalpable then roll down my throat. Sometimes the coldness of the glass thermometer reminds me feeling so peculiar and unusual that I had the privilege of experiencing. The quicksilver of the mirror-to-shun now has similarities with the polished metal surface of the mercury whimsical, with its uncanny ability to fragment without losing its original form.
also the day I fade away, I'm dwarfing warm slowly through dreams in which I recall the imprisoning grip the ball. I wonder if I too, one day I was fragmentary in many areas of silver gray color if skating my pink cheeks before, will become bright as the mercury, and if my children's children feel the same passion I'm sorry, because inherits everything, as I inherited from my father and my grandfather it, prematurely dead, weak and ashen.
I know this thermometer with me faithfully for years, pointing to the gradual progress of my order, eventually his days under the greedy eyes of my little son, whose hands extended toward my armpit reclaiming their heritage with babbling. The silver ball will end up a prisoner in his fingers, as the area of \u200b\u200bwood in the paw of the lion, but I suspect it will be for a short time, as the mercury in their inordinate love of freedom will end up fleeing the passion of my son fragmented, fading in his mouth, as it fades my face every morning in the mirror, in dark cracks of the poison.
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