Fine-Tuning a Writing

It was very early in the morning, earlier than usual for the retired Martin. A whole life being stuck in a rut , and he would now choose to relax in bed well until the sun mature. But that day there was a strange feeling in the air, and an inward impulse made him dress up, take a book and star reading by the bedroom window. In the shiny day, he could hear the sweet singing of the sparrows flying around the old oak, in which he still glimpsed the face of his great grandfather, who planted the tree according to the family record. Suddenly, there was a silence, such a deep silence that Martin was affected. Startled, he stood up and peered into the window. The figure of a little boy appeared under the centennial tree, not older than ten, dressed in tattered clothing, reading a book. It seemed a scene drawn from other time, so odd that he rubbed his eyes in surprise. He set eyes on the boy, who was deeply concentrated in his book, as if he had been belonged to the place forever. Impelled by an irresistible attraction, we crept downstairs, crossed the glass door, and padded softly across the garden to the oak. Crouching, he asked: It seems a good book, doesn’t it? For the first time, the boy looked away from the pages and, smiling in a shy but charming way, said: “It is the book of my life”.

“You mean that it is your favourite book”, asked Martin in a condescending manner. “Well”, replied the boy, “it might have been better. In fact, I need to look at it again to improve some things”. Martin was unable to understand him. “Hey naughty boy, has you at all written the book?”. “Not exactly, at least not with ink”, stated the boy. Martin felt confused, with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety. Then, he set eyes on the book. It was quite robust, with a fine binding, but old yellowish pages. The lettering was quite strange, and although he stared at it, he couldn’t make out anything. “What weird language is it?”, asked Martin, full of curiosity. “It is the language of the dreams”, the child pronounced firmly. “What a nonsense!”, sniggered Martin, and started shouting angrily at the boy. Drop dead! Get out from here, immediately!

Then the boy stood up, gazed at Martin, and said: “This is a book not to be read, but to be lived. Only those with a heart full of love, and empty of regrets, are able to read it. Dare you?”. Martin didn’t feel like going on with that game. He wandered through the garden, and  beheld lilies, roses, jasmines, chrysanthemums, daffodils. All the flowers had strangely bloomed, and filled the atmosphere with soft nuances and coloured fragrances. And there, with a tender stroke the boy touched his back, and said: “You should have listened to Grandpa Charles when he said that you deserved the best. Things would have been very different”. Martin was petrified of listening his grandfathers’ name. At that moment, he recognized that the boy he was talking to resembled himself when he was ten years old. “Nevertheless, you might fix it up”, said the little boy offering Martin the book,  Would you like to look back?”…