The little orange ball
I walk that long and white corridor. I do it as every day but now with more assurance. I turn left and that characteristic smell invades my soul, everything is to complex to be a dream. That is the only thing that makes me think this is not in a nightmare. I see people fighting against dead, visions of war in a peaceful place. Nothing makes sense.
Suddenly I meet my destiny, I see my father in a chair, resting his head on his left hand. He is thoughtful or better yet, distracted, steering at the infinite. On his other hand he holds a little orange ball, that he presses rhythmically, his naked legs hang below a green dress.
He notices my presence and with a grin, similar to a smile, he looks at me. On that moment I’m not a child anymore, I realize that the superman he is to me is just one more pathetic scene on that place. I see how human and defenseless he is. I think on how disgusting and ironic life is. At the moment, when I need him the most, I don’t have him.
I feel impotent and dejected before the forcible reality.