Читать книгу The boy with the sad eyes - Sam Chevalier - Страница 13

Yes, sometimes I feel short of breath when I remember.

And it is because they didn’t tell me, I lived it. To continue is to destroy, it is to erase and rebuild, and it is to leave a blank page on which we can write a better story, without so many timing errors. It is burning memories, breaking the lips of pending a “I love you”, it is suffering and laughing knowing that we will not go back and that the end is the beginning, that we aren’t defeated and we were never small, that we are much more than we imagined: we are great, we are invincible, we are magic when we raise our heads and decide to write new chapters, and every day will be better, I know it.

I also know that one day someone will knock on our door to make us feel like children again.

You’ll realize it at the least indicated moment and the most imprecise place, and yet you will feel peace... at that moment you’ll understand that you always belonged there, to those arms and to those eyes. And in that second you’ll understand that you wouldn’t change it for anything.