Transference

Por Richard Guerra

This is a story in which I intend to talk about changes to which the life take us and about our recurrence to those changes. Through the history of the encounter of people, of the influence of the past in each one of us, of our action, we want to talk about human life and feeling. About symbols that appear in our lives

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Richard Guerra
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 22 ago 2017
• ISBN: 9781370455225

Richard Guerra

Richard Guerra is a Cuban author, who is part of a small literary group in that country, From many years ago he has been writing short stories and even novels, publishing them as an independent publisher. His work deals with a variety of themes, from novels and stories for adults, to illustrated novels for children. He was graduated in 1991 as Electrical Engineer. He live in Miami, and is still writing.

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Transference

And even if I were a misdirected beast, unable to comprehend the world around me, there was a sense in my senseless life, something inside me answered, I was receiving calls from distant higher worlds, in my brain had been excited a thousand images.

Hermann Hesse.

—It was taken away by the tornado—I thought, seeing that there was barely the sand and the edge of sea that became hard and bluing as it approached to the horizon.

I had my clothes, three or four dollars, my camera and my banger. Nothing had happened; it had only swallowed a part of the coast, with its palm trees, some old trunks, my discolored kayak and some other imprecise thing.

What a shame! My Kayak served me to enter the sea and enjoy the spell that causes in me its odor, the breath of the ocean. That intoxicating and captivating effluvium that hydrates nourishes and spices the wit.

Then, I could return. So, I lay down on the fluffy awn I had left and I got slept without thinking.

It is possible to live without thinking, I've heard. And I say that ... It is possible to sleep without thinking.

I slept peacefully for a few hours.

When I awoke, I looked without startling that the tornado before leaving definitely, it had taken another part of the beach, but that was not transcendent, my car and the few things that remained of the first usurpation, were where I left before I immersed myself in the narcosis.

My redoubt seemed unalterable, and if it was not, I did not care. Except for my camera, that was next to my head and my car to return, the rest was unimportant. It was time to go. With total and pleasant abandonment I placed myself in front of the steering wheel and undertook the return to my periodicities.

On the way back I looked at my city.

First, the beach; the part of the city I prefer; with its striking landscapes and idyllic places.

If it were not that, to be honest, I know that nothing really matters to me; I would say that the beach matters to me. I am glad to bivouac in its surroundings and periphery. To stay until the sun submerges, watch the last rays sink and lose the waves in the