Chronicle of Tomato on the Floor

Chronicle of Tomato on the Floor

I dropped the tomato on the floor. With a look of superiority, like a queen, I rebuked the fall of the tomato subject. It was there, the poor man, sprawled on the floor, bruised and oozing red blood. With an air of nobility, I turned my attention to the board that cut many others more showy for the children. As I cut the other tomatoes, anguish distracted my head and body, although the fruits on the wooden board were beautiful and perfect, yet my heart was empty. I tried against arguing my anguish, telling her about my close family, about my healthy children and my loving husband, about the tidy house and the food in the fridge. Anguish could hear me even though my gaze was totally focused on the tomato sprinkled on the floor. I was the queen of the home, but a slave to the empire I built. I was not convinced of my own happiness, I stopped thinking about my bankruptcy as a woman and went to respect what, at that moment, was urgent. I looked at the bent and bruised tomato on the marble floor of my kitchen, a huge identification tormented me. I identified myself with the ugly, strange, sensitive and bruised tomato on the floor. Although he resisted, he knew that in many moments, or in most of his life, he had been, or still was, like him. I remembered how many people had already looked at me as I had just looked at the tomato, vertically with a knife in hand. I left the throne, dropped the German knife on the board and despised everything I had. I cursed the family, the husband, the children and the perfect home; I was disgusted by the tasty and sweet tomatoes on the cutting board. I yielded my fall, I lay, without any dignity, on the cold floor next to the strange tomato, I cried beside him with a desperate cry. It was as if I had found the way, the truth and the life. I didn’t make my religion of that moment, because I had just discovered liberation. I found the Beautiful in the Grotesque that I sought all my life, I found in its withered texture the aesthetic consistency that I lacked and in its timid seeds, the humility that I never had. I was happy beside him and he became an example of tomatoes. I did not declare him king because, at that moment, I understood Anarchy. In the middle of the afternoon I took off the crown, let go of my hair and didn’t tell my husband that there would be no dinner. Some months passed and, even today, that tomato lives in a pot next to the knives that never cut it. It became canned, while the other perfect tomatoes, they were so tasty, they already turned into crap.
tomato

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