For the past three months Gilda lived sharing a room with two mirrors: one of reinvented reality, the other of memories of future dreams. Before enclosing herself in this room, she lived for a whole 20something months in a prolonged detachment from expectations; her’s and others’. She proclaimed her newly-found happiness of numbness, and built on it. She even influenced those around her to concur. And all things were as they should: organized, controlled, comfortable, conventional. Or seemed like this. In reality, a new scenario was written and it took a chance event, a fluke of the moment to reroute a life: “Let’s meet up then.” Even when she wrote that innocent message she knew that the turning point was only a dozen paces away. But a turning point requires an instigator, a face. The face of this turn is the incarnated imprint of her favorite literary hero: Dean Moriarty as he blazes his own path on the vehicle of all those loves he felt. And she met him, and she smiled and then she was upset. “Has he stolen all things I am? He even has the same favorite destination: Argentina. No! Argentina is mine, this is my ever-reaching dream,” she told her best friend the following morning. “He was in my head; he read thoughts and desires, even unformed dreams…and completed them”...
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P.S. To be continued and delivered privately
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