Once I knew a guy he was writing and his writing was an umbrella.
Those colorful umbrellas with flowers and cats and people asked him to see him always asked him why “walk with that funny umbrella if it does not rain?”
But then it started to rain really and since when it rains people do not talk and listen no more, and runs away, the man remained alone. Apart from a guy with a normal, black, heavy umbrella.
“What do you do without an umbrella in the rain?”
“Here is my umbrella”
“But it is made of words, it does not stop the rain”
The guy with the heavy umbrella clenched in the black suit, anonymous and anodized, shook his head and left, leaving it alone.
People do not like the rain because it is pain and silence that runs on you without you being able to do anything.
The man with the colored umbrella lit a cigarette in the rain …
.. and every time it’s like turning on that last damn cigarette.
Only the man with the umbrella knows the words, flowers, cats and dreams.
That is, me.
And he knows he will have to keep it forever, because there is always an invisible cat in the rain waiting for an invisible man with a colored umbrella of dreams, because he will never stop raining, and will always fall dreams and cats and flowers from the clouds painfully full of life.
To color his umbrella.