10:59:00 | Escrito por Estefanía V. G. | Editar página
Peter Pan's Death
1. Tinker Bell
It rains, it rains on Neverland. Every drop tells a story that won't ever happen now; every sound a scream that no human could be capable of listening. From the drops' smell confusing memories flowed and, just when they precipitated towards the ground, they exploded with small but effective whispers. Each molecule of water yelled when born: "Peter Pan won't come back".
A black cloud covered the entire island, from the Mermaid Lagoon, Skull Rock, through the Indian Camp, the lost kids' tree, Hangmans Tree, the Cannival Cove, the forest of the fairies… At Neverland no one remembered the warmth of the sun anymore, no one was capable of imagining the blue sky anymore, no one could fly anymore, not even the Fairies. And, since they couldn't use their vaporous wings to travel long distances, they had to appeal to their legs that, tiny and squalid, couldn't bear it… the beasts had eaten them one by one.
But… There! Close to the Lost Kids' Tree there is a Fairy, its tiny wings are hiding in between the tallest branch leaves. It's Tinker Bell who, uselessly, tries to cover her ears with her tiny hands.
"Peter won't come…"
The rays strike the place with all their fury. Tinker Bell watches, from the top of the tree; she makes an effort, but she can't remember another Neverland anymore, like the rest of the creatures of the island do, she doesn't remember anything else beyond the night, and the rain.
And like in all tales, even the smallest creature, the most recondite existence of the story, is capable of articulating words.
- Peter! - she yells furiously.
Not even in moments of intense feelings she was capable of offering fairy dust anymore. Her skin, once brilliant, covered always by a gracious and magical layer of golden dust, had turned gray, dead fairy dust, ash… anything but magic.
Even though much time had passed by since Peter disappeared from Neverland she hadn't changed her mind, her stubborn wings kept looking at the sky, looking for a Peter that she only conserved in between diaphanous memories fragments now. She was the only one, from the entire island, that hadn't forgotten Peter Pan, he was the owner of her magic, she couldn't have ever forgotten him. And, even though she remembers nothing from before the storm, she knows that since Peter went away it hadn't stopped raining.
- Tinker Bell! You're here! I have been looking for you for a while. - One of the lost kids had climbed up to the top of the Hanged's Tree.
- I don't want anyone to find me. - she whispers complaining.
- Tinker Bell! - protests the kid, bored of Tinker Bell and her laments already.
- I was there…- she whispers again.
-Tinker Bell! I don't know what you're talking about! You're boring me! Get down from there! It's too cold up here.
The small gray light frenetically tears. ¿How can they have forgotten it?
The kid sights bored and looks at her disdainfully, it is well known that in the Hanged's Tree they are all tired of Tinker Bell, always talking about some Peter Pan, always crying, always furious, looking at the sky.
"Peter will come back!" she cries furious while she runs around through the tree branches and gets lost, leaving behind an ash trail.
Lost in the human world, she found him crying, in his baby carriage, alone and fearful. She flew farther from the horizon of blue water surrounding the island, from everything she knew. And, at the middle of a street like any other, in a city like any other, she tripped with a baby carriage. What a hit she got, getting away from a dog's barks, flying at full speed. The small Peter Pan turned his gaze upon that tiny being that was flying a breath away from his eyes and a sweet laugher wrapped around Tinker Bell.
A small raindrop falls over her, soaking her entirely, and returning her to her present, to her night, to the dying lost island.
The beasts hoot and howl everywhere.
- ¿Podrías escribir en paz?(Charles Bukowski, Barfly )
- Muñeca, nadie que escriba algo que merezca la pena puede escribir en paz.
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"En su texto, el escritor levanta su hogar. Así como acarrea papeles, libros, lápices y documentos de cuarto en cuarto, así crea el mismo desorden en sus pensamientos. Éstos se vuelven muebles en los que se sumerge, contento o irritable. Los golpea con afecto, los gasta, los mezcla, reacomoda, arruina. Para quien ya no tiene patria, el escribir se transforma en un lugar donde vivir."(Th. W. Adorno, Minima Moralia. Reflexiones desde la vida dañada)
- Estefanía V. G.
Crónicas de días lluviosos is licensed under a Creative Commons Reconocimiento-Sin obras derivadas 3.0 España License.
Based on a work at cronicasdediaslluviosos.
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"De repente me he vuelto pequeñita, tanto que un soplido podría romperme; pero ese soplo nunca llega porque él nunca respira, nunca duerme, nunca escucha; es como un centinela, sabe que sus cosas – las “cosas” de su propiedad - no se moverán. Yo… tampoco me moveré, permaneceré aquí callada, encerrada, con las ventanas y las puertas abiertas."
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