Twin Souls. Raimon Samsó

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Twin Souls - Raimon Samsó

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TWIN SOULS

      Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       JODIE’S notebook

       VICTOR’S diary

       Other books by Raimon Samsó

       About the author

       Author Resources

       To everyone who have touched my life

       in one way or another.

       My infinite gratitude

       for your presence

      The most amazing “coincidences” happened so they would find each other, recognize each other, and the long wait will cease.

      Chapter One

      The alcohol and the soda from my whisky soaked the painting, and dragged the paint down the canvas. To me, it seemed a dreadful painting, and it was a hard time to believe I had made it. So, as enraged as I was, I smashed the glass against the recently finished painting. Then I contemplated how that capitulation gesture decomposed everything.

      In my interior, a similar abandonment precipitated me to an abysm from which I was dissolving as well; I was blurred and bursting into smithereens. My recent pieces of art were a cartoon of what I used to do; and as a consequence, my sales lowered alarmingly. I wasn’t going through a shortage of ideas period, to which I had already gotten used to lately, but rather it attended to apathy’s consumption. Apathy oxidized my fingers and my brushes until they screech over the canvas, blurring it with mistakes.

      That one was a lack of interest, which impregnated everything I touched and resumed itself in the reluctance of representing a world so imperfect to my eyes. I painted hopeless and emotionless worlds because my empty heart sounded filled by the loneliness of the echoes.

      I came out to my studio’s balcony to breathe the night air. I closed my eyes, stopped the whirlpool of thoughts; and then I waited for a moment for my soul, a few

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