Chronicles of the onion flavour

This wounded bird has reached a depth close to the unbearable, a depth in which is impossible to live. “Do not treat me like garbage”, he asks, without facing the inevitable: no one understands him, and that is the reason why he feels so lonely. “Do not love me for what I am, love me for what I was or else for the trust of what I’m expected to be”, he repeats to those who misjudge him. He does not believe in forever anymore. “Let it be eternal until it lasts” is his new motto, his only weapon to face the unknown. “It is hard to face the unknown, when you cannot find a meaning for the known, the achieved, the lived”, he thinks every night, in that endless moment before he falls asleep, wishing for that epiphany to occur in the short moment just before he wakes up. “Let it be dark until the end, let it be cold until my body freezes”, he asks to his silent, empty soul. “Is it possible to live without having the possibility to love again? Or is love an absolute truth, like the wind, the fire or the earth, which stays still for as long as it is asleep?” , he shouts to the rain that will not stop falling. He walks down the street without a destiny to fulfill, nor even a place to go. He is lost because he no longer seeks the center. His heart is empty, that center is gone. This wounded bird gets rid of his wings. He does not want to fly, he forgot how to go high, and therefore they are useless. Let them lie on the floor, cold and stiff, waiting for his resurrection.