mad

there is a point when reality and fiction get mixed (at least in my life).

there was an argentinian writer named Roberto Arlt (i like him so much) he wrote a magnificent book named "the seven mad ones".

the main character is a poor man who is abandoned by his wife.

the text is very rich but i want to arrive to this point: the man is sad because his wife left him for another man. he knows that he cant offer a better life to her, he is a poor man, almost insignificant guy and the lover is strong and powerful.

along the novel, he imagines his wife with the lover. he is doing something and he starts to think that they are together, probably sleeping together, having sex. he feels terrible, he gets so jealous and sad at the same time.

....

meanwhile, the writer tell us that exactly in that moment the woman is not with the lover anymore, she is actually living with some nums.

she never had sex with the lover, she just used him as a excuse for leaving his husband, but she still loves him.

....

we, the readers know that, but the poor husband doesnt. and in that moment, i would like to talk to him for telling that everything is ok, that she has never cheated on him.

i feel all the pitty of the world for the insignificant man and i wanna help him to feel better.

but it is impossible.

it's just a book.

it's fiction.

it's just a character.

nothing is real.

except my pitty for him that goes on.