I've always had a lot of trouble with time and space. If I tell you this tonight, it is that I am writing an article from an exciting conference or a physicist explains that these times and space do not exist. Interesting the feelings of childhood… Meanwhile here is an excerpt from between two dreams, my first news or I evoke my difficulty in adapting to what was imposed on me.
Me and the world. Like when I was four years old. Four years.
The weather was uniform. There was no time. There was only one day that stretched to infinity. There was the day. There was night and laughter. The cries of the children playing outside. Colorful dreams floated around me.
Then they taught me the days of the week. The hour.
They stabbed me and I still bleed.
This artificial count lacerates my reality and fragments my being. These days of the week are devouring my life. They parade in a succession of moments that I never get to catch. I can't get caught. The carousel keeps turning. And there's no point in coming down, because I can see it, outside, it's still rolling. It is a round, in a round, in a round that runs endlessly and nothing stops. Why did they get me on this ride? What is the meaning of this crazy race? Slow down. At least slow down. But nothing happens. And if sometimes I say that I feel that the carousel is running slower, when Hope appears, I am told that I am demented. It's just that they don't run to be certain that he's not going to slow down that spinning carousel. Turns. and turn.
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