The Sink Was Full Of Fishes
"Everything we fight and suffer for,or it would vanish in face of Love,or it is Love"
Some of the contents might be unsuitable for children, considering the book speaks about lovelife of the current era in realistic ways.
Chapter 4 Page 1: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
Summer was like stepping back wearing teenage clothes on the verge of marriage: a wasted effort to feel them suitable.
London and Florence never looked as insignificant to human eye, and the beaches, either they were the Breton ones or the pleasant corners of Ischia , never had to be perceived as uneventful.
In the end Jill took the picture of her: at the airport, while she was queuing for the check in… A consuming evocative powered one, that depicted on her face the most discreet of sadness, as well as the most unescapable.
He developed the negative three times: one in document size, to be kept always with him; one in standard size, for filling the album of memories of the family, and the last one 24 inches wide, that was framed for his room.
He did also take off Pamela’s wallpaper from his door.
He felt so lonely the first days after her leaving, so very lonely, that paradoxically he didn’t experienced usual pain nor grief; so deeply lonely he did feel, that not even his own sensations were capable to touch him.
He had trained himself a long time for the moment of her departure: by imagining it he did suffer previously it did happen, and that was enough in intensity for making him assured he would have stood it in its storming at the planned time. But all his trials showed themselves pale in comparison to the real thing; and he learnt so you can’t picture what you have to live for the first time, no matter how good your projection of feeling could be.
He let fly alongside her all his stimulus, but you could see him going out anyway, and meet people and seeing friends and have with them nice conversations. It was simply senseless for him: he was doing it all for being polite and for not influencing badly on his acquaintances with unreal silences.
Nevertheless, his despair knew through which ways make itself visible.
He started to continuatively playing music, more often the piano than the guitar; and to write became his natural therapy. He penned dozens of poems, and descriptions of his alienated states; he used to upgrade his diary even three times a day; even during nights sometimes he woke up, shaken by the pressure of pouring down into words his anguish, or just for keeping in his hands the beloved and framed picture of his lover, to see in her melancholic expression his own being devastated from the solitude. Other times, after his sudden awakenings he would just sit open eyed and turning his head around he would have seen again the times that the room had encountered them together. He would have seen Melania in thousands of ways, hundreds of faces and that ghost would have not given any rest to Jill, that ghost that he could see with intentions’ will and which was making his days and nights impossible.
They were calling one another at the phone. They decided to make it once every three days to heal the sufferance of the separation; they found it immediately disappointing, like they weren’t able to say anything to one another that way, thing that was exactly true. They both knew it was fatal to lose one another so, they acknowledged straight they would have never been satisfied in such a remote contact with one another, especially after they did share so deeply every single hour together and honest enough to not accept anything less than that former perfection, some months later, around November, they dealt to come back at being simple friends, and they started to write intensively to one another.
Melania chose to sign up for one special class of Psychology of Societies, in parallel with her regular University commitments. With such a fulfilled agenda, she thought, she wouldn’t have got any spare time to cry.
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