Once upon a time, in ancient times, there was a man. He was a man surrounded by people, but I don't know exactly if this was because of his firm tone and voice or because of his intelligent eyes. Indeed, his intelligence was brilliant, sometimes paralyzing when read in his blue eyes. He often couldn't hold her back and slipped on the dark slopes when she shook her hand proudly. At other times, he was on the opposite side, running away from himself, for fear of harming himself, canceling out any vanity, and retreating into himself.
One day he was sitting on the side of a road, sitting on a rock, with his elbows on his knees, his forehead bowed, and no one around him. He kept talking and talking to all the women who had passed through him. He spoke to them with anger and disgust, though he had never done so before them. He whipped himself with words and thoughts of guilt, quarreled with his life, and did so by laying it on paper, chaotic and dirty.
That day, a widowed woman passed by, who did not seem to be ordinary in the eyes of other men, but she too, tired of so many roads and sidewalks, decided to get out of the carriage, walking resolutely in the mud, without care. that he will get his clothes dirty. She sat down next to him and they talked for hours. She saw in him the potential, she saw the glitter, but also the darkness. He read her writings and saw behind her anger, essence and emotion. She no longer had a status, but she had discovered herself. He was on the rise, but he was lost on him. Then she felt like giving him a purpose for him to fight for, to find himself and to get closer to him. He felt her show him a part of him that no one believed in and reasons to grind it, to channel his anger into art, until he undressed from it without realizing it and hugged it.
She wanted to change him for him and not for her, so she put in her arms everything she valued most, everything she had been up to before, and she fought with everyone who pulled her sleeve not to -and waste your time. He was there giving her confidence, comfort and even holding him like a child when no one saw him. She was there to encourage him to cry if he felt, and then to wipe away his tears and get up. Straighten his back and remind him how good he is. And she succeeded, many of her acquaintances turned and recognized that behind the darkness and the vulgar, there was a sparkle and a penchant for beauty and truth, but that love was needed to erase the chaos. She stopped him from congratulating her and asked him, if they really wanted to do him any good, to go and congratulate him.
The world began to swarm around him again, this time for who he really was and for the fact that he had begun to give hope to the people. He began to congratulate her, and she continued to encourage him, not to stop, because she saw him happy and because she loved him. Because he had become a perfect master of words, and that did him good. Confidence in him had begun to take hold and slip back into vanity, and though it had begun to strike her, it still encouraged and provoked him. Although he confused literature with reality and in a diabolical way began to combine them, she loved him more and more, secretly fighting with the questions in her and with the labels of acquaintances, because that was his way of escape from real and problems. Through art. And she respects that.
He sat in a corner of the audience, with his elbow resting on his palm and his temple resting on two fingers, and watched him take his dose of confidence, validation from them. He was happy, and she was smiling. She was proud of him. It was finally worth her applause.
Everyone returns from time to time to the place where they met. She walks without embarrassment in the same mud and sits on the stone. He visits the place only in passing on his way, without even getting off the new carriage. He was smiling because he had won in front of her. She continued to applaud him for the show, watching him walk away.
"My lady, you have soiled your dress," said the man who was accompanying her, holding out her hand to get up.
The clothes are being washed, John," he said, rising, smiling. She hastily left a blue on the stone, and from now on, in all her life, no road has passed through it.
