Es un concepto Freudiano de una instancia de algo que puede ser familiar sin embargo extraño al mismo tiempo, resultando en un sentimiento de estar cómodamente extraño o incómodamente familiar.
The Raven that wasn'tOnce there was raven (Corvus corax) who was schizoid and lived in a cage by the perch of a Blue-and-yellow Macaw (Ara ararauna) who repeated uncouthly and daylong the articulations that their masters produced, and only those that ventured inside its ear canal. While eating the raven thought like this: if only I could ever talk, I would talk like the Macaw.The Raven that wasn't by ~ocurro
El Cuervo que deseaba SerEste era un cuervo (Corvus corax) esquizoide que vivía en su jaula, situada al lado de la percha de un guacamayo azul y amarillo (Ara ararauna) quien no paraba todo el día de repetir con aire despreocupado los fonemas que pronunciaban sus dueños y que alcanzaban a llegar a su canal auditivo. Mientras comía su fruta pensaba el cuervo: si yo pudiera hablar algún día, lo haría como el guacamayo.El Cuervo que deseaba Ser by ~ocurro
Radiating joy the page is.Once there was a pawn who had nothing better to do than scratch his belly between one labor and the next.Radiating joy the page is. by ~ocurro
The year was 13.. in a town in Germany not called Köln or München but little known, Ellendorf.
The page (the pawn, that is) was a sad man, crestfallen and schizoid (introverted). One fresh new morning he accidentally discovered a pair of scissors that he had lost long ago doing manual work for the employer. Well, these scissors produced sparks from the rust they had collected as the page noticed and as he verified later were able to cut the immaterial, including the shadows.
It was still morning when he set forth to try them out in the town-village, which he affectionately called the Big Ranch. It was a few hours thinking what to cut. When he began cutting shadows of plants and objects, he watched how once they falled off the edge of his scissors they disintegrated to appear no more. Later it came to him, he could use a barrel shaped as a drum al
WrathI hate her. She never believed in me. She never really cared. I when I first realized it, she tried to make me feel better. She gave me a gift. Thought it would help. A little bird, in a golden cage. When I saw that bird, I felt better. In my dreams, my rage lingered. The bird spoke, speaking of her deceptions, her trickery, her false love. I saw her for what she really was. I yelled at her, my sweet Elise, my lying, cheating Elise. She started crying, saying I was wrong. She kept lying, making me more and more angry. I hit her, a red haze filling my vision. Wrathful fires burned deep and hot, venting themselves on her. She fell before them, her broken body tumbling onto the ground. I sneered at her, rage unforgotten. But now just needed to find someone else to show it to. Just another Elise, lying broken on the ground.Wrath by ~miles436