Curse of the Wisdon
books stacked, spine horizontally allowing the title and author to be seen, cars facing the front, hood and license plate, people and trees distinguishable by height and hair or crown, the sequence of years diminishes the vision but equips the brain with a detailed scanner that elide to pareidolia, in one drawer texture and colors, in the other weight and flavors, such as that little you, cataloged in the section of visually acceptable beings, human, pre-adolescent to his presumptive 9 years, blue of the shorts taken from the palette of picasso, irregular dentition requiring palatal expanders and, like a grandfather spying on the family that has lunch at the table set, his curious brown eyes peer from the doorway at the father's small library above the wardrobe, the fourth grade demands reading classics, there isn't one, so he read the Iliad that becomes a kind of alternative treasure, bank of almost incomprehensible words or depository of linguistic jewels. unlucky boy, he would have a better fate scratching his knees in running around the neighborhood, but you know how it is, a father pours out his pretensions and his alter ego on his offspring, some are rewarded with ignorance as in a lottery, others find damnation early if it's called wisdom.
Copyright © Marco Chies | Year Posted 2022
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