Stories and News No. 749
It seems that in India four fifteen years old girls, after a note accusing their coach of harassment, have attempted to suicide.
By eating the fruit of the tree of suicides…
Once upon a time there was the tree of…
Suicides? The young girl with frayed heart and torn soul asked.
Yes, the tree of...
Perfect, you are what it does for me, she said.
Or, she murmured with the remnants of breath still in his chest.
Give me the fruit, she added in a tone just as faint, and make me put an end to everything.
Of course, as you wish, the tree said.
In order to get it, you have to climb on top because I take the deadliest gifts high on the most inaccessible peaks of the crown.
Why?
Because, you know, the poisonous narratives are the lightest, the fastest running in from belly to belly, and are all trendy, so they are commodity cheap.
They are placed there, in the noble window.
The young girl rallied the atrophied shadow of vital energy, survived the destruction of the coward monster, and began to climb.
Halfway she stopped, breathing pleading compassion.
Am I far?
No, the tree said, but in the meantime you can rest in the hollow just above your head.
She raised the latter as the small force allowed and saw the promised couch.
The refuge of rugged wood and loving words lined.
She slept.
And dreamed.
It was pleasant, certainly pleasant.
She recalled that the dark also tells different stories.
From the usual nightmares.
After indefinite time she opened her eyes.
She stretched.
And emerged from the unexpected hole, to continue the journey.
The last one.
After a while she saw the first branches and leaves.
And as climbing she found herself increasingly confused between them.
She climbed, her fatigue screamed, yet she shrouded in plant waves.
Caressing cheeks.
Skimming hair and fragments of the face they spared.
More often hugging.
At best, a tender yet meaningful touch.
It was also lovely.
Remembering that the encounter with the living surface sometimes keeps the promise.
To leave you alive.
And even more.
The girl went up again and finally reached the long-awaited summit.
So she saw them.
Mortals medicines in pulp and peel.
Can I? she asked fearfully.
Please, the tree replied.
The young girl took the fruit and gave only a small bite.
There is little of me, she thought, just as for extinguish.
A few moments and the young girl felt the effect of the conquered gift.
Light.
As the sun comes on, for how many stars will fall.
As love steals, as hatred you’ll avoid.
As dark rain on defenseless nudity.
Your light will wait.
To be loved by yourself.
I'm alive, she whispered, not yet dead.
But are you or not the tree of suicides? she asked puzzled.
Of course I am, he said, but if you really want to get to the end.
You have to listen the whole story and give time to the words.
So said, the tree of...
...missed suicides.
Italian storytelling with subtitles
Also on Stories and News:
It seems that in India four fifteen years old girls, after a note accusing their coach of harassment, have attempted to suicide.
By eating the fruit of the tree of suicides…
Once upon a time there was the tree of…
Suicides? The young girl with frayed heart and torn soul asked.
Yes, the tree of...
Perfect, you are what it does for me, she said.
Or, she murmured with the remnants of breath still in his chest.
Give me the fruit, she added in a tone just as faint, and make me put an end to everything.
Of course, as you wish, the tree said.
In order to get it, you have to climb on top because I take the deadliest gifts high on the most inaccessible peaks of the crown.
Why?
Because, you know, the poisonous narratives are the lightest, the fastest running in from belly to belly, and are all trendy, so they are commodity cheap.
They are placed there, in the noble window.
The young girl rallied the atrophied shadow of vital energy, survived the destruction of the coward monster, and began to climb.
Halfway she stopped, breathing pleading compassion.
Am I far?
No, the tree said, but in the meantime you can rest in the hollow just above your head.
She raised the latter as the small force allowed and saw the promised couch.
The refuge of rugged wood and loving words lined.
She slept.
And dreamed.
It was pleasant, certainly pleasant.
She recalled that the dark also tells different stories.
From the usual nightmares.
After indefinite time she opened her eyes.
She stretched.
And emerged from the unexpected hole, to continue the journey.
The last one.
After a while she saw the first branches and leaves.
And as climbing she found herself increasingly confused between them.
She climbed, her fatigue screamed, yet she shrouded in plant waves.
Caressing cheeks.
Skimming hair and fragments of the face they spared.
More often hugging.
At best, a tender yet meaningful touch.
It was also lovely.
Remembering that the encounter with the living surface sometimes keeps the promise.
To leave you alive.
And even more.
The girl went up again and finally reached the long-awaited summit.
So she saw them.
Mortals medicines in pulp and peel.
Can I? she asked fearfully.
Please, the tree replied.
The young girl took the fruit and gave only a small bite.
There is little of me, she thought, just as for extinguish.
A few moments and the young girl felt the effect of the conquered gift.
Light.
As the sun comes on, for how many stars will fall.
As love steals, as hatred you’ll avoid.
As dark rain on defenseless nudity.
Your light will wait.
To be loved by yourself.
I'm alive, she whispered, not yet dead.
But are you or not the tree of suicides? she asked puzzled.
Of course I am, he said, but if you really want to get to the end.
You have to listen the whole story and give time to the words.
So said, the tree of...
...missed suicides.
Italian storytelling with subtitles
Also on Stories and News: