boy

boy

Baffled by a peculiar conviction, the one that tricks your brain down the path of lonely peculiarity, every thought is a little pebble and like all the other thousands or maybe millions of little rocks it ornaments the roundabout which, by all means, doesn’t seem to be connected to the nearby roads

Yet it really does feel like it’s leading to a downwards way, freshly paved and instead full of twists and turns, white lines contrasting the tar black asphalt.

Every step produces puffs of dust and if you walk quickly enough you may find traces of your past footsteps barely visible yet ever durable against the altering forces of the eternal wind and rain.

The boy is not home, for he may no longer be a boy as the threads of space and time shift uncontrollably and wrap around themselves. Like tricksters, they stay ever out of sight, further enhancing this wretched inner turmoil, the one that paradoxically drives his two little— or big, it doesn’t matter— feet forward.