Seasons change over time. The land that was always wet began to dry out. Longing for the arrival of water that falls from the sky. The sky changed its color to blue like his favorite color. The sun has been seen more and more lately. Everything changes with the seasons. The most hated season why now I don't want to change.
Will God grant? Pray nothing else changes including him. Can life go on like the last two months? Many questions have no answers. Math is better than this. He hates math. Am I going to hate it too?
February 22nd, this country should still be in the season with a gray sky and the smell of water-stained earth. Making the atmosphere tense plus sometimes accompanied by lightning. I hate rain. But don't want this to end soon. How soon does the season change?
"You're my sunshine in my rain" Beautiful sentence has a lot of meaning in it. The first time I heard it, I was happy half to death. Feeling special about the sentence he made but in fact he hates sunlight. When he returned, did he like the light from the center of the solar system? But will he come back?
He disappeared with the rain.
About the Creator
intan
Short fairytale of my journey
The First Child
Every second, when I'm pensive, I still can't believe I'm already at an age that can't be called a child anymore. Maybe for some people, 18 years old is still in the category of children at their home, but not for me, because i am a first child. I had to be forced to act mature until now. You have to get used to doing anything on your own without the assistance of two more people because I am the oldest. Obsessed with being the best so my brother can set a good example too.
By intan2 years ago in Confessions
The Whisper of the Volcano: When the Earth Remembers its Children
There is a silence that precedes knowledge, a void of meaning that dwells in the most familiar places. For Mateo, a young farmer from Comala, Colima, that silence had the shape of the horizon. Every dawn, as he went out to the furrows of his cornfield, his gaze met, immutable and powerful, the silhouette of the Volcano of Fire. It was not a landscape; it was a mute life companion, a sleeping giant whose breath was the wind that rocked the corn cobs. He had seen it roar, spewing orange fumaroles in the distance; he had seen it covered in an improbable white mantle in December. But the volcano, to Mateo, was a geographical fact, a datum of the territory like the river or the hill. Until the silence broke, and the earth began to speak to him.
By diego michela day ago in Fiction
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