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KALEIDOSCOPE 02 - The letter from the dead




"Dear Gabriel.
is the will, the will to communicate that prompted me to again take up my pen to write. I lingered long at the phone, but I decided that I preferred ink smudging a letter .... already, like ink stains on scenes where words run, dance, make a bow and leave the stage to give way to other words-actresses, actress, because the target of a meaning that goes beyond what is expressed clearly, is a state of mind, my entire being that the words should be interpreted.
more fluid in this way than with the dry-electric buzzing harshness that they assume the phone is not it? Besides, there are things through a phone can not explain or understand, how the will to communicate silently, the quiet and sorrowful silence, that strange, harmonious intimacy of thoughts whizzing like bows for violins or drift lazily as water a mountain stream, a silence full, satisfying, but, for some strange reason, the moment where I am living it, it scares me.
And then call it? A phone outline with no facial expression, without the flashes in my eyes speak louder than words. The letter is basically just a means of last resort. The truth
is that I want to talk face to face, but your voice terrifies me, I always seem to feel in your weight of all items in the world, voices not spoken, whispered in his mind, voices that others might not perceive, but I did, and I can assure you that those whispers become a deafening silence.



You might wonder why I'm writing just to you ...
... because you are my greatest failure.
When you were born I had hoped so much that you would become a bad son, then the greater would be your imperfection, the more I loved you ... but you were always perfect, so I wanted to hate you, but I could not do that either this.
Have you ever wondered why I called Gabriel? See when your grandparents were born long been uncertain whether to call Michael or Gabriel. They chose the first name, and it was as if choosing that, had they chosen all of me, even as a child I believed myself to be under the name I was given ... but Gabriel was all that I was not and that I could be. Gabriel was my shadow, the embodiment of my concern, the model imagery that left me drowning in a sea of \u200b\u200bbile and frustration ... every time I was reprimanded for something I imagined that it would have been Gabriel Gabriel because he would do better me, every time I lose a race, a challenge, not only lost with myself, I lost against him, and every time I saw Gabriel unhappy smile.
was perfect, it was what I wanted to be, and I hated his perfection, so I called Gabriel: in the vain hope that you crack that perfection.
How many times I wondered if it was possible, if we could say, that I could not hate him.
Then I understood. I realized that hating Gabriel (that is, his idea, my idea of \u200b\u200bhim), hating the idea of \u200b\u200bGabriel, the idea of \u200b\u200bGabriel, who was created by me, I hate myself as well.
That part of me that created the idea of \u200b\u200bGabriel, but to be able to hate, is itself hated by me. I hate Gabriel, who is in me, and I hate it because there is not, because there is, because in reality there .... there is in me.
So I wanted to kill me by Gabriele, hating myself for not being him, I took Gabriel to hate me because he did not exist in me, in fact, exist not in me, did not exist except as a comparison, as a mental image, was Picture of Dorian Gray turned upside down.
But now I won, I, I!! Gabriele hath been spotted! The feathers of its wings are black, stained with pitch and heavy, heavy, like those of a seagull entangled oil, the oil spills around him grabs him with caresses of a deadly cloud of despair .... ... I see him, with hands dipped in blood, chino, desperate, tries to collect the broken shards of his shattered halo.
I'm happy.
So ends my story. "