The loneliness of man.

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The loneliness of man
From the window, hidden in the dark, I have heard how the children have thrown stones at the house and broken the few remaining panes of glass. Every day, after they get out of school, they pass by the front of the house and say among themselves:

There lives the monster, the monster is near, watch out for him - and they throw the stones and run away terrified like cowardly delinquents and cross the sharp intersections of the corners without anyone stopping them.

From in here, you hear the rumors of those walking outside who also say the same thing:

If you misbehave, the monster will eat you," they say to the little children. "If you don't go to school or don't eat your food, the monster will come out to eat you, take you with him and you will never get out of that ugly and horrible house again," and they point inside and I hide in fear of them.

Since my wife died, I hardly ever leave the house: "I look like a soul in pain inside these four walls, an exile from life". The walls eaten away by dirt and filth are the only companions who listen to me. Although I don't know if I'm talking to them or to Sofia, the rat that runs around the house and sometimes looks at me with pity.

Since Olga died, my darkness began: first it was my feelings that faded, then I lost my consciousness, my memories, my sanity. I forgot who I was and who the others were. At that time I walked awake in the middle of the night. The streets, lonely and dark, were crossed by me, again and again, as if I was looking for myself. And even if I wanted to get lost, I always returned home, to this house populated by ghosts.

Afterwards it was difficult to get out of here, to wake up. And although I made several attempts to recover, it was too late. So I preferred to stay, even though there was nothing in here, only Olga's absence, which grew bigger every day, like the damp stains on the walls of the house, of corrupted and putrefied humanity, and like the certainty that I was still alive, in spite of myself.
There are seasons when I go out, only to realize that it is better not to go out: my figure marked by mourning frightens people. Hundreds of fingers pointed at me, sidewalk changes as if my gaze were contaminating, are proof that they forgot what my face looked like.

I myself, sometimes I approach the dusty mirror, clean it and look without recognizing myself: a centuries-old beard, matted hair, a dirty and haggard face. Then, every time I look at myself, a light pierces my soul and my conscience. I discover, then, that when children and people say that a monster lives in my house, that monster is me.