His tears were made of stone

During that masterly dream, Manuel glimpsed until the death of his epiphany that the only transcendental thing he could possibly scribble in his eternal and boring autobiography would be having conceived children.
After so many studies, provings, tries and errors, ambiguous and secular experiences.
Several, none, all and the only one.
Decisions, some erudite and other ones anger-sheltering.
Reactions, contempts, absolute or pleading intentions to hurt and even to kill.
Or to love.
How different could they ever be?
The most sincere of his words told him that depressed was barely a nickname, a sentence to define, a blurry state that just wouldn't end up his poisoning.
He wasn't twenty-five yet and he already felt as having reached the top of his capabilities.
He was aware of his being common, austere, plausible and definitely one-handed.
Just a man.
Mr father.
One more.
He felt like crying.
His eyes wouldn't respond, though.
Nothing did, since his soul dryness was turning him into a statue.
He hungered for being released from the chains that now skewered him away from life.
But at trembling, he proclaimed that nothing was now under his control, if it ever happened that anything was.
So drifting.
No pride.
Lacking of a peaceful backwater.
So much love, so much work.
So lusty.
So fun within the sin that in its moment was almost barbaric and arrogant but that by today was left worse than degraded.
Merely common-placed.
Less than that.
Just another series of stupidities.
A totalitarian stain.
That turned him almost into an animal.
Nothing now.
Only boredom.
And no tear whatsoever.

Imbecil...