I had this guilty pleasure of liking the beauty. I was tasting it lingeringly while letting it know. I was progressively criticized for my constantly way of searching the beauty. I was searching it recklessly, in fires and suspicious states. I was nonchalantly putting my hands and eyes over everything that drew my attention. But my main problem was that I had a weird manner of recognizing and distinguish the beauty. In my defense, I can add that I was always attracted by abnormalities.
He was delighted to listen to me. I could see the youth and desire of knowledge sparkling in his eyes. He would have touched me, but he was trying to temperate his cravings because he did not want to point out his clumsiness. I was touched by the innocence of his feelings… feelings that were not raised over a cemetery of memories. I was touched when I noticed that I was the center of these pure instincts that were wandering over the cells of this young man.
I was telling him to not speak with hope. I was telling him that I will not be his ally in those feelings. I was telling him that I will sustain his love only with disappointments. But he was putting new meanings into my words using the voice of a boy begging for forgiveness. He wanted to receive consolation and mercy. I realized that he was free and I threw a shadow over him. It is very difficult to keep the beauty safe after you own it. It is so strange to wither a thing that was still blooming.