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A Christmas story...Finally I get to the subway and start my way back home. I leave my bag on the floor and I close my eyes, freeing all those feelings I buried down for 24 hours. Although, they resist, they feel too comfortable inside of me...
I open my eyes, astonished by the silence. I seemed to remember that the train was kinda crowded. Indeed it is. Next to me a child's sleeping on his mother's lap, with his father next to them. None of them says anything. Only they are not alone in this train...
I see young people lost in their blackberries' screens; elder people dressed in their finest and warmest clothes, staring at nothing. They eyes are a sea of constrained tears. I know that my eyes start to look just like those.
I get to my stop, get off the train. The escalator take me to the surface. A woman standing 20 steps forward keeps staring strangely at me; I'm already used to that, I really don't care.
When I get to the surface I breath this night's cold air, waiting for the wind to dry the tears on
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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