There is the awning: tied up by ropes. Two ends high up on the house. The third one is a little bit lower, on the opposite wall. He thinks he likes sunbathing. And so there he stays, as still as he can, warming himself up. Until the wind comes, all at once, no one knows where from.
All the awning longed for was to be that wall. No one can tell whether it’s windy or not just by looking at that wall.
The awning suddenly puffs up. It instantly bulges upwards. And then, instant later, it bulges downwards. He is scared by the sound he makes himself by moving from one side to the other. Each time the wind gusts, each time a new loud crack is heard, he thinks he is not going to make it. He can barely tell if the sun is still up there or not.
There was this one time when the wind blew so hard the awning ended up flying all the way towards the top of the ceiling. That was when his knots were strengthened. After that, a thousand new blows could not overthrow it anymore.
Still, all the awning longed for was to be that wall. No one can tell whether it’s windy or not just by looking at that wall.
The door slams. Not that it matters, but the awning prefers to hold on tight until the wind is gone.
On the other side, in the kitchen, the boy hears the voices in the living room. He wasn’t really into talking, though.
That was what his mom said before taking one of the juice glasses that the boy had brought them on a tray. The other glass was for his aunt. That one who would never visit them. As a matter of fact, she had seen the boy no more than once, but she wouldn’t figure that, for him, she was but a stranger. Nor could she realize that her strong perfume and her too colored clothes could make him dizzy. The boy was about to answer what he was learning in school, but then the aunt was already telling his mom about all those new things she had bought in the big city’s wholesalers. They would definitely make her little shop flourish.
Before he became but a nuisance to that conversation, the boy preferred to go back to his bedroom and put his little cars away. It is true that sometimes he would be a bit disconcerted when he had to talk to strangers. But a messy boy is certainly something that he wasn’t. He was always done with his chores before anyone had to remind him to.
Above all the other cars, he placed his favorite silver one. And on it he saw the reflection of his long eyelashes. And then he smiled. He knew he had a charming gaze.
He put the box away in the shelf and went outside to play football.
Eleuterio loved psychoanalysis. Maybe because he had an almost blood relationship with it. He was still a child when he first heard those abstract concepts being applied to him.
Jung. He was told about a certain cross, in whose ends the psychological types described by Freud’s Swiss disciple were placed: thought opposing feeling, in the rational axis, and intuition confronting sensation in the irrational axis. He was also aware that, for each of us, one of these functions would be dubbed “superior”. And that, opposing the superior function, in the same axis, would be the inferior function. He thought that name was quite scary.
In his young age, Eleuterio was obviously not able to get hold of the real meaning of it all. Nevertheless, it left imprinted in him a memory that would have a strong influence over his life. He would always remember that, as he was a good thinker (or was it because he thought too much?) he should be careful about his feelings.
This carefulness kind of got stuck to him. Because it made sense, of course. Understanding things was easier and more pleasant than oscillating between sadness and euphoria, for example. The problem is that he ended up developing a certain fear of his own feelings. Whenever doubts popped up, he would then tend to only think the answer through.
Lots of wrong decisions later, he found out that things were not exactly like he once understood them. He was just lucky for he felt too much.