My philosophical piece of opinion of the day.

I forgot it for a while, I actually forgot about several things.
I was about to deliver the papers when I got intercepted and continued to participate in the required social interaction which took about 45 minutes, after they left I decided to continue with my chores, even if it was a little late for some of them. As I delivered the papers I got trapped once again in a catch-up conversation, which eventually erased from my mind the fact that I had left my ceral cup abandoned.
When I came back, the thought was not reachable anymore, and all I could remember was the other one thing I had forgotten, which was, as always, the dishes. Dishes that I forget because casually they're not mine. (I tend to forget this responsabilities which I don't actually consider as mine, obviously) Then Dan called, and I was in no mood of answering, so I left the phone ringin, though this was not an effective solution since he called again, and again. That was Dan. So I answered, and wishing I had the default Verizon voice [ref: xkcd] I finally answered.
No I do not want to go, No I will not lend you money, No I don't know were you left your keys, Yes we'll talk later. Bye
I finally returned at my room, about 3 hours later, only to find I had forgotten my ceral cup, which was now a dense dough-like substance, with swollen raisins.

You know what's the worst part about them?

They are not real.

None of them, they don't really exist. At least not like they appear to me in dreams, photographies and short letters. And I have seen them, most of them in person. But it's been so long now, it's been not just years, or miles apart; it's always more about the people. How many people away are they? How many friendships unlike mine did they have until they forgot about me? Or in the case of the foreigns, how many people would it take them to meet me, to see me? Those questions, I can't answer, thus, I don't know where are they. And so, they are just not real. If I don't know where they are.

And there are several problems with this, because that's just how I am, I entrust my hopes of happiness in these strangers who, at the end of the day are not real, and then I have to pick up after the mess. And it's just silly.

It's silly because you are not even dreamy, or ideal, for anyone whatsoever. But for me? Well, I dream about you, so technically, and literally speaking you are in fact, dreamy. And I hate that, because I know how you are (sort of), and I know how it would be, the first time we met. (It has happened, you see, in my dream I was able to move back in time with my memories. In there I moved things around so to get to actually meet you, present myself. But none of that has any value because it happened in a memory... in a dream). It makes me feel so pathetic to actually dream about it, but it also feels sort of reassuring of some humanity inside. So that's the problem with you.

Then there is her, who for some reason is the only symbol standing between me being a hypocrite and me being a cynic. And that is because she is actually the type of person I talked about the other day, the rebellious tribe. And she also happens to be at the same time part of the Masked-to-dazzle crew. And yet I think of her, even if we were not so close, even if she'd think I'm stalking if I tell, even if she is a complete stranger (and unreal), she is a problem. Because like you, the image of her grows in me, and just like with you, I know I can't really reach her.

There is another her, but she is not really someone I long for, but instead something I wish I had, not her, but her experience. And she is sort of a mix of she and you. And you know her, you're actually good friends. But of course she has long forgotten about me, and there is no really a reason why to contact her back; other than having self pity.

She, she and you should make a party, make sure to leave evidence; and then just for the purpose of being cruel, should have someone near that resembles me, and you should all like him, and praise him, so I would know that could be me, but never would.

Of course there is they, who all live in digital paper, and who will never even by chance meet me. I know they are so very different, and I could not really bond with them. Yet, they are the only people who could possibly understand some things neither of you could. But that's fine, I can live without them, I only need to see them occasionally. But that need of seldom observation is their problem. I cannot have them, but I cannot lose them.


And finally there is us, we. We have problems. The rest of you may have not noticed them, and probably won't for the time being, but the roots have rooted and the branches will soon branch. You see, the problem with us is really no one's fault. It's just that as the I grows larger into other directions, the space in WE simply feels more narrow. And it will probably get to a point where it will burst, I will escape, you will not know what was of me. And then, years later I will reminisce of these times, looking back and wishing I could contact you guys, but it will be too late, I will think.


And that... is the base of destiny and fortune telling. Finding a pattern in the past, and knowing that no matter how changed in the cover, the core of the future will always be the same.






[I'm sorry, there are just some days I NEED to be alone. These days happened to be those]
by I'm the penguin

Things come and go, we recieve unwanted news, we cut some plastic somedays, we recieve people from, we say goodbye to people, we watch movies, we play music, we scan through banksy books... and we read posts with (title unknown)
I wasn't actually feeling in my thinking-life mode, but I did a thought summary about recent things in my life.
And I remembered... barcelona...
Love this pic.

I posted in the future, because I was posting in the past, and now I can't fix it... whoops...

I spent all day making this video... which is not great but give me a break, it's the first thing I (really) do with AE...
It's the narrator at the beginning of P.T Anderson's Magnolia, oh, poor Sydney...

And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that this is not just "something that happened." This cannot be "one of those things"... This, please, cannot be that. And for what I would like to say, I can't. This was not just a matter of chance. Ohh. These strange things happen all the time.

[ video here soon....wait, rendering is slow.... and don't even get me started with youtube's uploading]

The other day you asked me, technically I asked first and you just proceeded as usual. I remember your answer, it was something I didn't actually expect, even if you are one of my favorite subjects. I didn't know you wanted to be a DJ, or that you even liked them that much. But that just reinforced your role as the prototype of contemporary hero, and made you grow bigger in me. But that's a whole different topic.

There was a fly in the mashed potatoes by the time you arrived, I was watching it, move its little limbs trough our food, it flew away when you slammed the door. You walked in, playing with your keys, you had that keychain I had got you from seattle, the sound of the space needle against our house's keys... Every time you did that it meant you were anxious, I knew what you were anxious about, and I would've gone to you and try to fix it, but not now, not today, I was done fixing things. I just sat in the couch, and there was no fly to watch anymore.
Then, you finally came into the room, I didn't bothered to say hi, you did.
'Is eveything alright?' you asked,and I said
'yes'.
'Is there something eat?' you said
'Mashed potatos' I answered

Back in the 90’s (don’t I sound old) they seemed like something else, something mysterious, free, rebellious, even gallant. I thought of them as something beyond my young understanding, something that was deep, and hard to understand, and it was the peak of all human transcending. They were no longer children, and yet they were not adults; they were a mystic creature in between.

I remember I looked up to them in respect, but in an accomplice kind of respect, a sympathetic bow if you will. Why? Well, they were talked about amongst adults, they were described all as animalistic, uncontrollable, even criminal who were reckless, every single one of them. They were to be feared, they were to be stopped, and they were an idol. And the thought of such a creature that would even scare the adults, who at the time seemed to me like an unquestionable authority, was enough to consider them myths, to see them as roaming wanderers behind a curtain on mystery, drugs, sex, and rock and roll.

Whenever I looked at them, I recall thinking what it would be like, to be them, to have this separate universe where anything could happen, where one was allow anything, where one was to be daring and in the top of the world. They didn’t seem insecure, they were just fed up of stability; they weren’t stupid, they were audacious. And I believe this is because I thought of them as people, not like us children. We were no one, we were dressed as our mothers would command because we were just children, we would be thought as funny when saying something stupid, because after all we were just that, children. We were not expected or permitted to act like people. But them, well, with them it was a complete different story, they no longer played by the rules, or had to, they made their rules, their world, which they own every bit of it. They were people, without having to be boring adults.

And this myth I had about the youth did not stop at their unspoken war against rules and adults. I thought of them as strong, beautiful, sassy and intelligent humans, who had most likely never been children. They each were special in their own way, all of them defied the very laws of nature, they could conquer the world but were just dulled by it, they could take over the minds of everyone but were just uninterested. And having this idea in mind, any adolescent who I found with no charm, no luck and no wit was just an overgrown child, nothing special about him. In this way, there could be none that wasn’t amazing; the ones who weren’t just… were not part of the group.

And I’m not very sure why I had this thoughts about this tribes, or why would I give that much importance to that group. It could possibly be just the beginnings of my love for rebellion and decadence; it could be that I never felt in my age range. Or it could be that they were simply super humans, who were kind enough to walk among us.

But with the years, and the 00’s (if that’s what we’re calling them) I realized the latter was maybe an idea I should revise.

When I hit the age of 13 I knew it would happen, I knew that puberty would arrive and make it all gross and large, and awkward. But I also knew the doors to that secret legacy of special beings would begin to open. Needless to say, I had to wait a while… And the fact is that my expectancy of belonging to that admired universal army of rouges did not change. This meant that I was still expecting, still waiting to be one of them, to see my peers get there, and all together we would travel the Atlantic on canoes, we would fly to the end of the world with nothing but kites made of hopes and dreams. We would take over the world.

But for some reason the stupid kids were now the stupid puberts, the once fart and buggers jokes were now the sex and –other fluids- ones. The world at 13 or 14 hadn’t really changed as I thought it would. I was waiting for everyone to have some melodramatic situation every week so I could come up with some witty and sympathetic solution that would for some reason work better for me than it did on the TV. And all I had was Jimmy Nobody and Joe Underacomplisher, whose parents fought over Christmas dinner. This wasn’t the world I had been seeing all those years. But all and all, maybe it was the people who surrounded me, so I waited.

And as time went by, and I observed people, they, I mean we, were not audacious, we were stupid kids who borrowed someone mother’s car under the influence and drove like crazy people. We were not fed up with stability; we secretly craved for it, look under the rocks to find it in whatever presentation it came. And most certainly we were not people; we were far from being such entities, we were lost and large children playing the game of being old, of having power and we played to have fun.

I will admit there were some which shared characteristic of the rebellious ways I praised as child, there were those who dared enough to play the actual role. But that was all it was, a role. They drank like pirates, they danced like go go girls, they drove like Meteor, they had sex like groupies, but when the lights went off, and their mask no longer could be seen, they were just that, roles. And sometimes, just sometimes, there was a real people under that art craft of a face. I happened to be lucky enough to find a few.

Then, for some time I thought that was it, that this masked phonies and their fancy lives with their fancy stories were it, the image I had long formed and revered was diminished to these people who I could see trough, that all the waiting and all the expecting had been for that, to find out my vision as a child was an illusion. And in a way it was true, there is no such thing as that much of a large group of people who are all awesome, who are all in a blood pact of changing and revolutionizing the world.

Because for what now I have learned, it is not about the age, or the stupid coiffures, or the slutty clothes. The core of this war against establishment did not belong to the teenagers, it never did; it just seemed like it. It belongs to those who refuse to wear a mask, it belongs who those who dare to speak against the majority for a cause, it belongs to the ragged-trousered guy playing the guitar in the rain, just for the love of music, it belongs to the girl in the yellow dress who insists on riding the bicycle to work even if it’s some kilometers away, it belongs to the bloggers without readers who keep writing for the love of it, it belongs to just a few of us. Maybe not people, maybe not all teenagers, but we exist; as stupid and insecure as the next guy, but here.

by I'm the penguin

So besides reading music sheets and fighting over posession of the modem.. (which is so last decade.-. ¬¬) I did one of my mini dialogues about nothingess... the sort of objects which are contamitated with ideas that rush suddenly, and you say.. "oh, I can't forget this one.."


-It's just, I'd rather be in the other side..
-There's no other side!
-Seriously... You let them get to you, that's the problem.
-Them? ...
-No, wait.. I didn't mean..
-You made your point, thank you.
-No.
-Please leave.
-It's just that...
-Please leave.

As he leaves the room, things fall at his back, breaking and rolling, then we go back to him sitting at the purple chair he was seated before, during the begining of the flashback...

Their role in society is very absurd, and amusing. Everyone knows they are there, everyone has seen them, yet nobody cares. And just some are honest enough or plain cynics to admit so:We just don't care what happens to them. Because while they are still people, and are a lot of people, we try not to recognize their exitence, because in doing so, we also acknowledge many flaws in ours. And that is just something that we won't allow.

It is funny how in today's world (ours) you can get music recomendations by people you've never met before, and perhaps never will.
At the instant (plus some lag) he posted the message, probably by his sophisticated wi-fi mobile, which was about 10 hours ago, a message apeared in my home page. It was a music suggestion from someone I admire, casually of a band I also admire and deeply enjoy. So was this a cheap cosmic trick in the way I see it. Because it developed a series of ideas in my head which will continue to rise as I listen to that specific album. And he doesn't even know it, he doesn't know I'm alive, I barely affect his income as I buy his movies when they are in sale... Still, here I am, talking about it.
What a funny funny cosmic joke...

I'm recommending Au Revoir Simone's new album Still Night, Still Light. Let me know what you think. http://bit.ly/jO1na

[Mr DL's twitter]

Today I wanted to share some pictures I've collected over the years. Of course they're not mine, and of course I don't know who made them. So I just want to disclaim I ignore the authors but would be more than happy to acknowledge credits if commented on who made them.

I'll have to keep looking for a jazzy funky tune to play in this vacation. Because the one I found, and loved, has a lost or sold music sheet, and I suck at extracting too many notes on chords... still, here it is

i want an arrangement like the following

any of our imaginary readers is in possesion of the music sheet?

Hey...you...

I left the court house as soon as I could, I needed a new plea, a new strategy, new witness and I have mad cow. In other words, I needed a new job.... maybe I could captain my own spaceship... or was it the other way around?

You just have to like William Shatner... he'll never see whatever common people see..

Procrastination became a serioues trouble twelve hours ago, now it is just plain cynism.

There is more from this in Funny Graphs

I had to post this video, is one of the most beautiful things I've seen lately!
Enjoy!

Dreams, I could hardly describe their impact on society and art, or fiction and philosophy. Far from being just image, sound and feeling recollections in our brain, they are considered to be out of this world, to be something far beyond. They are greatly related to mysticism and the occult, the fantasy and future telling.

That was the day when I first saw the bearded man. White hair, grey suit, purple tie and suitcase. I just looked at him for a while, he was bitting his nails, which I thought was weird, coming from a man with white hair, grey suit, purple tie and suitcase. He was waiting for the green light, and he stopped bitting his nails only to look at his watch, to then start again with his nails. He repeated this about four times, in the one minute wating he did, until the green man apeared. Then, he crossed the street with a quick and steady walk, and he was gone.

I though about it, you know. The paper I showed you the other day, the one that depicted with incorrectly written nomenclatures and insoluble compounds, trying to describe of what am I composed of. And I knew it would be sort of inaccurate, and I knew you would say so too, so the surprise was when you told me you were the same. That even with the distance difference we could get the same results in that sort of crappy test. And I was not naïve, I knew it was not a coincidence from the beginning.

But what there is to get from here is hardly that we got the same, but what that meant. Because the description mentioned substances of great solubility with foreign chemicals, multiple uses for the outdoors and the harmonics. Yet, in the formula it also contained compounds of only low density, not one reached even the water’s. It also said we could not have deep feelings. And just ask the stirring rod, there is plenty of space for feelings.

And well, without so many metaphors, my theory is that it is because we are observers. We stand aside from what’s really happening and we sit to watch, how they speak, how they walk, how they make love. We stare, we don’t start. And even if we participate, we know we’re not fully in, because otherwise we couldn’t be out, observing. And so I think that when it comes to telling the truth it is revealed we’re not involved, so the tests show low density, as if the matter occupying that space was less than the space itself.

And this theory works, because we can get away with saying that because of our life profession, we appear as empty vessels, because that is what we need to do to do what we do. Doo doo doo.

But, as always when I make theories; I though it trough and saw how very fake I was maybe being. Because the question crossed my mind just like I t it has crossed yours (because obviously you’ve gone through this same thoughts) Is it really that? That because we observe it seems we don’t feel? Or is it that we don’t feel and thus we observe, trying to elaborate a counter paradigm.

Maybe.

You tell me Mister

Soon

...

by I'm the penguin

Like a complete unknown... like a rolling stone
made with Wordle and a little PS

By I'm the penguin

Era una psicópata triste, como lo son la mayoría de las psicópatas. Su lengua que colgaba de lado hasta casi tocar el piso ya era su propio trademark. Muchos pasaban sin verla, otros se detenían para ver las manchas de su piel, otros temían a su mirada siempre pérdida. Las encías consumidas y sus dientes siempre expuestos, (parecía que sus labios nunca alcanzaban a cerrar, eran encías y dientes largos) tenían un color arenoso y unas caries que nunca fueron tapadas.
Y sus ojos eran tristes, como ojos que esperan una mirada, o una galleta. Casi negros, casi agujeros en la cara huesuda.
Contaban que la habían encontrado en la calle, en el momento no parecía loca, pero su vulnerabilidad siempre fue muy transparente. Es por eso que la recogieron. Unas manos blancas la llevaron, la cuidaron y la dejaron crecer. “Ya se arreglara” siempre decían las manos. Pero ella siguió creciendo, tan larga, tan huesuda, tan psicópata.

Since today it seems the fountain of inspiration had a mayor breakdown (the pump broke) I though of showing you some deviantART talents (yea like WE are giving THEM exposure xD) Anyway, enjoy.

I was watching a movie, and I was thinking: What if we were psycho aliens with mild astrophysics knowledge... o wait, we ARE psycho aliens with mild astrophysics knowledge...

It's difficult to see the sky with the clouds of this season, still yesterday I saw Corona Borealis for a while, and it looked nice.

I like it. It was no special bright stars or anything, it's just.. a crown, filled with stories, near Boötes, which for me is just a name I never say out loud, since I wouldn't know how to..
Being as simple as it is, it catched my attention yesterday...[ Colin Clark's ]


[from Wiki]

"Siempre imaginé que el paraíso sería algún tipo de biblioteca" -Jorge Luis Borges

Cuando alguien menciona tal cosa como el paraíso o el cielo, nirvana o como le llamen en su localidad, la gente tiende a imaginar diferentes cosas. Puedo decir que el que conozco mejor es el de cristianos y católicos, el cual figura una estancia pacífica y blanca en el cielo rodeada de angelitos tocando el arpa. Aparentemente no pensaron ni en la gente con vértigo ni en los que odian el arpa. En fin...

Pero cuando uno se pone a pensar en el resto de la eternidad rodeado de nubecitas luz y rodeado de gente muerta que nunca hizo nada muy malo, es cuando se pone a pensar en los pros y contras de seguir yendo a misa. Y dando esta premisa es como llego a la segunda, ¿qué mejor lugar para un paraíso que una biblioteca?

Pero obviamente no cualquier biblioteca, aquí los libros no se les acumula el polvo (amenos que así se les pida), siempre conservan el olor a nuevos, y todos, absolutamente todos tienen portadas artísticas. Este paraíso tiene una iluminación al gusto, es decir uno ve la luz que quiere ver, no más, no menos. Hay anaqueles de libros con más de 30 metros de altura y kilómetros de ancho, pero aún así el primer libro que se agarre siempre es el que se buscaba.

El diseño cambia con los días, nunca es de mal gusto, pero si tiende hacia lo inusual. Un día los libros se encuentran flotantes en un lago de pensamientos, y al otro danzan flotantes alrededor de los lectores. Hay días en que los anaqueles están de más, otros simplemente son hechos de colores y luz, y también está el día en que están hechos de galleta (día en el cual todos los libros acaban apilados en algún rincón a falta de anaquel)

Y sin duda, este paraíso es como los demás, no se deja entrar a cualquiera. A la gente aquí no le gusta mucho ser elitista, pero lo es, quien solo leyó TVyNovelas o sus contrapartes en cualquier país está condenado a una sala de espera con nada más que revistas de chismes de hace tres años (el infierno). Ahí también acaba la gente más peligrosa en cuanto a libros, no los que no leen, si no los que leen solo un libro (este llámese cualquiera que involucre dioses desquiciados o vampiros pedófilos, o del tipo). Y obviamente no hay necesidad de decir, que aquellos que queman, rompen, roban o echan refresco a un libro en el curso de su vida acaban en la sala de espera también.

Así que teniendo esto en mente uno puede pensar en si seguir creyendo en las nubes con música de fondo de harpas o si optar por la biblioteca más grande y perfecta del mundo. Claro que conforme la vida de uno se figurará a cual sería más posible entrar y optaría por ese (en caso de no ser masoquista).

by I'm the penguin

Likes: Sleeping watching movies (oh rly?), watching movies, having fun during vacation
Dislikes: Sold out tickets D:

This is revealing once more the scheduling fail and the time travelling. But still.

I saw a couple trailers, I ate some cereal.

I went into the mountiain, I met some cows, and turtles.
(Seriously.)

We messed up some shoes, mine survived.

Oh, good old times, oh the good present time!

Problems with linearization

Problems with my life...

and problems with my camera



by I'm the penguin

You know it really wont surprise me
If I'm a wreck by the age of eighteen
The way I look
The way I look is not fine

So, yes... I'm the type of person that reads cereal boxes and takes videos of kids playing with umbrellas...
And I'm the type of person that says that all this strange short videos of water vaporizing and salt falling will someday make a beautiful video... which I'll post here probably...

In my video summer, I've had a rest from the AE's slavery day, when I thought the keyboard became part of my body... So maybe it's time to start playing with it again, this time, featuring small pleasures of live, in a picture-video way...

Oh those small pleasures...

As the robed man ignited the smokes and prayed to a deity beyond, craving for forgiveness for what he was about to do, and pleaded for strength not to flinch in this dubious endeavor; the young man in the other room waited patiently, silent, as those who do not seek in the waiting, but for the time to run.

The man proceeded to enter the next room, where the young man was, he had a big wooden box in his hand, which he placed in the table of the room. It was a little pre-hall room with stone and gravel walls and no ventilation. The only source of light was a window where someone, must likely by mistake, had put a stained glass of a dove surrounded by a red and yellow aura that did not even fit in the window frame, it was probably a left over. The result was a work place with a red and yellow lighting and the Holy Spirit resting in the table, that was of course until 6 p.m, when the reflection moved to the other wall.

“What is today’s lesson father?” The young man asked, without a sign of eagerness or boredom. The old man remained silent while he opened the dusty box, and once the lid was taken away and the old man caught his breath after all the dust had scattered he looked at the young man as if he had just noticed his presence. “Our interest today is the content of this box” he said, looking at the inside of the container.

“But first, we must review one of the most basic concepts there can be in a corporation such as ours” The young man slightly shrieked when the word corporation was used. “Can you as a soon to be priest tell me in few words, why was Christ important?” the father asked.

The priest to be was thrown out of position for a second, open mouthed and looking at the priest as if what he had just implied a horrible insult. “Of course I could, that is the true purpose of a priest, spread the word of the savior” he replied, confused of the father’s intentions. “Jesus Christ is the son of God and king of kings, holy among the mortals and yet he sacrificed his life to beg forgiveness for all of us; he had profound knowledge of science and medicine, yet was humble and carried the office of a carpenter. He used his miracles to heal the ill, guide the lost and redeem all human kind.” He said, not knowing where that question was going. “And after his dead, he resuscitated three days later, bringing the message of love and peace to the world” he ended.

“That is all true in what you have learned and also very inspirational. But what if I told you he’s not unique? The ancient Greeks had in their cosmogony a son of God that had been killed by and then, out of his holy and living heart, the gods were able to put him together again, Dionysus.” He explained while taking out a very old book with Greek letters and images of a boat and dolphins, and one with a heart and the gods. “Then there is Krishna, the direct incarnation of the creator, who on Earth performed what could be called miracles and brought a message of peace?” the priest explained with another book, expecting some sort of response from Joseph, who remained silent, waiting for the priest to be over.

“Then there is Mithra, whose sole name means to bring together, to tie the heavens and the Earth. Being the redeeming part of a triad of deities, he was the one in contact with the humans, punishing evil and praising good, redeeming those who have done wrong.” He said, showing Joseph another book, and other. “And while there is not an account of a sacrifice made by him, there is still the symbol of the god who saves the mankind, who intervenes between God and man.” He said that last part raising his voice, raising his spirit for truth and understanding. Joseph remained silent and observing while the priest went on explaining with a somewhat passion and guilt the origin of Horus from Egypt, or the similarities of the biblical symbols with Pagan deities.

“So, what do you think about this?” asked the father, after some hours, knowing it would take a while for the disciple to produce an educated response.

“I do not understand your point clearly, is this supposed to show me the other religions had influence of our believes, or that they all just used a transverse story of Jesus?” he asked, completely confused, yet remaining calmed.

“My son, this could be true if only our religion was as old as the others, which is not” he said, making an effort to confuse the young man. “The reason of me telling you this is beyond any person, even God’s son.” He said, crunching the silent atmosphere around, as if with that sole sentence he had turned the class into something else, as if the whole room and monastery had became something else. A disturbing silence came in. “What I’m trying to make you see is that all these cultures had the symbol. Maybe it was present in different figures, and maybe none of them existed, not even Jesus, but they all had the symbol” he said, part of him wanting to make the young man understand, and other craving for forgiveness.

“But.. Father, is that not heresy?” he asked, for once upset and fearful.

“You could think it is.” The Father said, looking deep into Joseph’s eyes. “But I actually believe is quite the contrary, and that what must be gotten out of all of this, is that the savior is the symbol we all share. Jesus, and this other deities were not holy just in a country, they were believed to save the whole world. And at the end of the day that is the message you want to spread around. Because if Jesus did existed, which I wouldn’t dare to deny, he would prefer, I think, that we remembered the message of love and sacrifice rather than a history lesson.” Ended the father.

The room then became the most silent place in the world. And there most surely have been a thousand other places with less noise, but that was the most silent one, as if nothing there have ever existed, as if the walls had been there by mere coincidence as well as the white dove who slowly moved out of the table. The Father and the priest to be did not existed there, there was just vacuum.

Vacuum was only filled with a single whisper from Joseph “Why...?” It was not a question, the Father knew it, he also knew it would take more than a day to explain this to Joseph, given the state of his raising and education.

“You may not understand now” The Father said, “but ahead of us comes a time where we will need to tell apart what is what in the chaos this world has become…”

“I really don’t know what you are talking about Father, and frankly it is perturbing” said Joseph expecting some type of apology, some laugh that would tell him Father had just gone senile. They both remained sit staring at each other.

“You are dismissed” the Father said “be sure of something, all what I have said today is for the better, and for your nearness into the holy” he said, not looking at Joseph, in fact not even telling him; more like repeating it to himself. He was only trying to save Joseph’s life, with the few time there was left.

[I understand it is a lame short story, that is because it is not a short story]

by I'm the penguin