RE: The image is made of own imagination and thoughts

beautifull art @xpilar

Every day ... sit in the same place, that shabby sofa, prepare the seconds that emanate from the wall clock that beats my head like the alarm, and as the seconds increase, the remaining seconds of life will be reduced with me, and any life is not at the age of eighty. ! Look around me to bring back the deadly daily routine to find that cat with fewer teeth than the rest of my teeth to realize that it needs more death than I need, those curtains, oh those curtains, if I could tear up the rest of its worn threads to see that outside world through that window Shattered, but who argue?! How can I see the sunlight from those huge factories that filled the area, and how can I breathe after it has become the filtered lungs of those black fumes that I no longer know are fumes? Or pull thunder. I never looked like I was looking out of the window to see all those vast orchards and play from morning to evening without fatigue. One day, time will take from me all my childhood happiness and turn it into stones and iron piles producing all these toxins, They say it's factories! The plants that make only the smoke and the waste that I think one day it will become a beast eating the old ones who have no life in them any human being speaks to them ... Yes, without shame, I mean myself! And how the youth to pass and the ages are as old as I have been and washed away with my husband, whom I did not know before the meaning of being the most beautiful woman in the world, because there was no women in his world other than me, ah if time or come forward to go to another life in which he gave even one moment I remember all The days of that year that we lived together before he died in front of that damned truck, yes I still remember it ... A rusty blue driven by a drunken young man running away from a man who almost killed him with a rifle for stealing his rusty truck. Make my seventy-six days beyond hell unbearable. What's that sound ?! Do you know? I forgot that voice as if it were a scan of my imagination, a moment please, visitor, I told him to arrange the place that had passed seven decades and I did not open the door to a visitor, except the boy who has the bike now and I see the qualities of his grandson in it. Life is hungry. I said with great enthusiasm: "You prefer, my son." He opened the door with his loud, dusty entrance, and I did not know that that moment would be the last moment of my life.