The Boy without a Name
Sitting on the steps he watched the wall in front of him. A tiny crack in the plaster, perhaps, had appeared in the last weeks, low down along the bottom, toward the right. Closely studying this day after day, week after week, every single nuance in the paint was familiar.
As his age progresses his world does not. These stairs, this wall. The seasons come, move, pass, yet they are unknown to our young friend. He switches himself off, he becomes nothing. This is how the time passes. He is dimly aware as figures pass him, up, down, these blurred figures have things to do, places to be. He cannot allow himself to think of this or his own inaction, solitude becomes more acute.
And then, one day, one speaks to him. He stares, bewildered. A yellow bucket dangles in front of him. The unfamiliar sound of a voice barely penetrates. Slowly, carelessly, his muscles tense as he attempts an unused memory; to stand.
Yet his body cannot cope with this foolish, futile attempt to rise. He sighs and stumbles. His hands flail and he cannot steady himself, down and down he goes, flight after flight.
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