Dreaming snow, a short story by the author Martin Cid
Dreaming snow with Jack the Labrador. Good dog!
Every city has its own soul, every city has its little great secrets. Now I am here, in front of this computer, trying to imagine a better landscape of snow and a man who is saying me hello. Where are you Jack? He is here, like always. He would like to be playing in the mountains. I still remember Leo and Joyce and the great Robin, other dogs in my life. When they saw snow for the first time, they opened their eyes and we knew they were happy. Sometimes, I remember the last two pages of Dubliners by James Joyce, one of the most beautiful examples of beauty and rhythm in the History of Literature. Where are you now, Michael Furey? Where are the roots of your eternal love for her? Where are those words to become immortal? Jack has watched the snow a few times, but I think this year it will be different. Now, he has two friends in the mountains and we go there weekly. He will enjoy the snow this year for the first time. Would you like to play with the snow, dear Jack? Would you like to meet your friends again? It’s time to remember those lives living without words, those lives that escaped from time and suddenly fell into a grave of silence and fire. Jack is watching me now, preparing to go out. He watches at me and he waits for his walk, every evening at 7.30. Good dog. What is your favorite landscape, dear Jack? Sometimes, this city is cruel and sometimes is kind and sometimes is nothing more than a city of shadows and anonymous faces. Where are the friends I left? Where are my patterns and the girl I pretended to love? Time again, dear Jack, time again. The snow is falling down slowly, very slowly, watching us writing, crying and falling. Last year, I was still a young man and I was sick. Christmas is coming and I don’t know still where those friends are now. Have you lost? Have you won? 0 -1 or 1-0. What’s the matter with binary code? I feel the world has lost the sense of the decimals and you can summarize everything to win or to lose. Is that the only explanation for craziness? Is that the only sense of our lives? Where is the snow, dear Jack? I would like to be there, watching again the snow falling down. Sometimes, dear jack, I feel strange inside my body. I can look at my face beyond the window and I cannot feel I’m here. Where were my dreams? I would like to escape from this jail of words, from the Eternal Return to the nonsense. It is cold here and it is cold in Ireland. We lost something, dear Jack, we lost something important.