Emilio & Interpretation Is Complex

EMILIO

It felt like eternity. But then again, it always did. He would never get used to this feeling; it wasn’t horrible, nor was it particularly good. It took a few moments for everything to reboot, for it all to kick back in. All his memories, all his past lives came firing back in. He was first born Emilio; this is who his soul would always choose to be.

He sat up from the bed draped in a light brown suit, the very one he first died in. The one he wore to his daughter’s wedding. Her beauty was trapped in the fabric, and she had surrendered to the sands of time, the cosmic belts of life that flash between the blinks that make us miss life.

Emilio sat on the edge of the small bed. His old trusty brown short-brimmed hat rested next to him on the edge. He lifted the hat from the top and settled the brim just above the wide wrinkle cascading through his forehead. With the short time between waking and rising, he knew who he was, where he was, what had happened, and all that needed to be learnt.

He turned to the small boy he used to be, the small body that vesseled his soul through the short life that he rose from. Emilio placed his hand on the boys small thigh and smiled. How fond were the times he had, how rich were the memories. Emilio stood to his cosmic feet with the lessons the young boy had learnt. Emilio reached out to the small light near the boys bed and flicked the switch. The light in the room vanished and so did the heartbeat.

INTERPRETATION IS COMPLEX

It consumed her. Swallowed every fiber of her being. It tore through her muscles, devoured her fat. Her bones were brittle, and she wreaked of death. Her face was gaunt, as if she had breathed in all the oxygen in the world and never exhaled. She was neither dead nor alive, she was being tortured.

She shuffled when she walked, too weak to barely lift her feet. Her eyes were hollow. Her smile had been stolen and never returned. I felt immense guilt looking at her; this petrified girl, so vulnerable, so delicate; I didn’t want to breath in her direction in case she floated away.

She wouldn’t have minded. She wanted death; she had had enough. Her story is tragic if the version I was told is true. There’s no magic in her life, no spring or autumn, just quiet supermarket isles, dressing gowns, and lonely thoughts of that dreaded miscarriage. I heard that God had cursed her; for every baby she produced, he would take them away. There was no magic left in her anymore, no desire.

She walked by and I felt my soul being pulled to her, she had become a black hole of happiness. Passing by, stealing everybody else’s magic.

I’m not mad at her, she’s oblivious to it.

But are some people omens? Is she a warning? If I interpret her meaning, it’s only a harsh outcome; rude even. You should always just keep on keeping on.

Where do we draw the line to signify that it’s not okay for hurt people to hurt people?

A mother loses her infant and then roams the streets at night, murdering and stealing other children, so their mothers know her pain.

When a father punishes his wife for how his mother treated him as a child, where and when do we draw the line?

Is pain a good enough excuse to hurt others? Is there even a good excuse to hurt others? What is a justified situation?

Why is interpretation so complex?