Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta writing. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta writing. Mostrar todas las entradas

domingo, 23 de noviembre de 2014

Writing Crap

My days are always the same: I wake up ten minutes before 10 AM to watch this tv show I like. As I do that, I eat breakfast. My breakfast is basically anything that lays around the fridge or the cupboard. I don't like breakfast, it annoys me for some reason.

After that, my mom is already up too so we watch more Tv for like an hour and then I shower, get dressed, tidy up my bedroom and by 1 PM I should be writing on my laptop.

And then, things get really easy or really annoying. Sometimes I've had an idea before and it comes back as I seat in front of the screen so it comes right up: every detail, every character, everything there is to say to make it good enough to read.
However, I practically never make corrections. That's because I'm lazy and also because I think that makes me kind of a bad writer, if I'm not capable to see errors as I write them.

Well, that's on the good days. On the bad days, it sucks, big time. I normally come up with stories I can write fast and don't make me go crazy. As one day I write in English and the following day in Spanish and so on, it gets easier or harder depending on how ready I am to write in one language or the other. Some things are easier on one or in the other. it just depends on my mood or something.

It happens a lot too that after i began, already with two pages finished, I realized how awful my story of the day is. I read a paragraph and I get pissed, sad and annoyed at the same time. It either doesn't make sense or it sound stupid or childish... It make me angry.
Sometimes, if I spent too much time doing it, I just post it and think "Fuck it". No one appear to be reading these so who to fuck cares.
If I happen to be particularly annoyed by my writing, I just erased it all and start again. Those times, I think how awful it would be if someone read my blog and thought "What is this?". So I write something else, out of the blue.

Writing is the only thing I think I am able to do correctly. I mean, I make cupcakes and I read a lot of wikipedia, but writing is my thing. I'm an idiot with numbers and social issues don't really get to me. Let's just say if I was a president I would very rapidly become a dictator.

And I know it's weird and frowned upon, for a so-called writer, but I don't really love reading. I mean, sure I read but not huge books and 5 in a year. Maybe I read one a year. I mean, for many people I know I suck a lot. But I believe writing and reading are two different things, that have little to do with one another. But that's me and, quite possibly, I'm the only one who thinks that.

So this is what I do. Write a blog and just hope for thing to pick up somehow. I have a career and a masters degree but no company gives a fuck about that. They want people they can mold and I'm past that. Not to say I'm such a creative soul but I'm not an empty canvas either.

After writing, I normally go walking somewhere. my goal every week day (there's no way in hell I'm going to exercise on weekends), is to walk 10 kilometers. I do it through nice little neighborhoods or by avenues or on huge malls. I don't care as long as I have time to make my brain calm down.

To sum it up, here are the reasons why I NEED to walk everyday:

 - Live with parents
 - Never had a job. NONE.
 - Have never been paid to do nothing. For real.
 - I'm 25.
 - I'm gay.
 - Social life in a coma.
 - What the hell. I do need the exercise.

And those are all (probably not) the reasons why I need to breath some fresh air and prevent myself from going crazy, again. I have my "rage episodes" and they can get pretty ugly but I writing has gotten those under control.

See? Writing is not only about doing the one thing that I do good. It's about doing something that makes me calm, that has the incredible capacity of make me think and just concentrate. I left school and college so long ago and I need some structure in some kind of way.

Before you think "the gym is nice" or some shit like that, let me tell you a little something. I hate gyms, I loath them and the people that love them. That's it. I won't apologize for that and won't explain it because, let's face it, how many people will be reading this?

Anyhow, what I like the most about writing is the imagination part. Many people think about techniques or structures or storylines and I don't really care about that. Actually, that doesn't really matter because what really matters is a good story, a real one, kind of original. That's it.

My career was focused on cinema and that made me think about how brilliant minds can be when they put all their energy on something. We are all in awe of people that have come up with awesome tales and characters and dialogue and we worship them like gods but we forget they were once like us.

Ok, maybe not like me but you get my point. They were people just looking to make their dreams real and by that I don't mean "dreams" like in "making your wishes come true". Not that. I mean taking out from you mind what's there and put it in display for others to see. That's the dream that comes true, not if you find a loved one or win the lottery.

Imagination for me is the most attractive thing. Maybe that's way my social life is in a coma. Yes, I have friends and they are a small number, which for me it's great, I know them better because of that. But I fail to make new ones because I get bored fairly fast. I mean, if I'm not interested in you in the first five minutes, believe, were not going to be anything.

Same goes with guys. If they prove to me that they have no imagination whatsoever, there will be no second date. Or second chat, to be accurate. Nowadays, not even that. I have no energy or personality left to have a steady relationship with anyone. And before you say "Someone will come when you least expect it", let's just say I have been waiting for 25 fucking years so kiss that.

Well, I think I digress a bit from my main point. For me writing makes things happen were I need them to happen first: in my mind. Yes, life is about physical things and so on but that hasn't worked for me, so what's bad about creating stuff for people to read and, first and foremost, to make me feel I'm not a failure and that I can do something?

No harm done I think.

To be honest, I prefer writing my crap every single day, that forcing myself into a life I know I will hate and loath every single day of my life. Unemployed and poor? Well, yeah. But hey, there are always fast food chains.

martes, 30 de septiembre de 2014

Breath In, Breath Out

Brenda had been going to the doctor for a year now. She had discovered she suffered anxiety and depression and they told her that she should be medicated and doing special exercises to be calm.

She went to yoga class, two hours every day. There, she tried hard to do the exercises correctly but the truth was that Brenda had never really exercised in her life, at least if you don't count walking the city looking for a job as a sport.

She had been jobless for a year and her health problems, or should we say mental issues, were to blame. Brenda had a crisis one day, punching herself, yelling, screaming and attempting to jump from a balcony. So she was fired.

Her parents, already disappointed that their daughter had not found a suitable husband, found her problems to be the last drop in their glasses. So they just sent her money and try to help her that way.

Besides yoga class, she had to attend a psychiatrist. This, she hated. The woman would only sit there and let her talk for a whole hour, an expensive hour. Brenda would have dropped out if her doctor wasn't like a falcon, watching her every move.

Sometimes, she would only tell the psychiatrist what she had dreamt. She found out that an hour could pass fairly faster if the woman had to decipher dreams, all of which had apparently the same theme: her suicidal thoughts.

Brenda had only thought of that option at that time. She had been cheated on, she was miserable at her job and meeting her friends proved to be a difficult task.

She had only three females friends from school. They would reunite at least once a month to chat about the new and exciting things they were going through. That was precisely what Brenda hated: as she was not banging anyone and her job as assistant archivist was not precisely movie material, she would always spend those meetings in silence or fake smiling and laughing at the precise moments.

It was not that Brenda had not had her share of fun. She had indeed: sleeping with men and going on interesting vacations. But they were anecdotes that one could only repeat once or twice, before they became annoying to others and hurtful to herself.

The psychiatrist once asked about sex. "What about it?", Brenda replied. She hadn't done it in a year and a half and the last time the man she had done it with had cheated. She had enjoyed, during college, the crazy sex nights. It didn't happen often but she had her fun. But when she liked someone for real, Brenda was always honest. But honesty was not a quality most men found appealing, or so it appeared.

Love was this mystical being for her, like a unicorn. Very few people actually see it and there's the strong possibility one would never see it in this lifetime.

Religion? Another fun question. Of course she wasn't religious. She just couldn't. Temples, of all denominations,  made her nervous. It was this overwhelming aura that felt too much to carry on your own and the words were simply not helpful.

After her breakdown, Brenda hid herself in books. Adventure and science fiction, as they were her favorites. They told stories of worlds that didn't existed, that could not exist. And she liked that very much.

Brenda lived alone, only with a dog named Luna who was her only real friend and companion. Luna had licked her wounds of self hatred and would always sleep beside Brenda as she read a book. The dog, ironically, was a gift of a college flirt that she had never had anything with, besides smiling and having small silly talks.

What she liked best was that moment after you put your book down, pull the covers up and wonder about the world in the darkness of your room. She would imagine a life that would make her happy: writing her own stories and becoming famous, sharing her thoughts with people, having a beautiful house with Luna and a special male friend.
He would take her hand often, kiss her in the most unexpected moments and comfort her when she would fall into the pit of her mind.

Brenda would often go to sleep just like that. And then, the next day, she would realize the world is not made of fulfilled wishes but of an almost endless effort to be a bit more happy.

jueves, 25 de septiembre de 2014

You've gained 5 kilograms

And that was all the stupid machine could say: "You've gained five kilograms". Brian knew that, boy did he knew that.

Exercising in winter wasn't as easy as doing it in the summer. Besides, he had too many good, big meals and he didn't wanted to be that stupid person that says "I'll pass", as if food was something not much more different than a poison.

He got down the scale and, for a moment, thought it might be broken. But that was impossible: it had been bought only a few months ago and worked digitally. No, the stupid scale said the truth.

He went to the bath room and got naked as he had to take a shower. He turner the hot water faucet and then, he glanced at the mirror: he looked back at himself, a little sad, a bit disappointed. He looked down and saw his body was far from those in ads and movies. He wasn't obese or anything but felt bad for not being that perfect model society wanted all of us to be.

In the shower, as he did in bed as he slept, Brian imagined meeting someone who would love him for who he was and for discovering things about him that not even Brian knew.

But when the water stopped falling, he knew that wouldn't be the case. Again, this wasn't a TV series or a movie, there wasn't a someone for everyone and people didn't love you more for being different, just the opposite.

He put on his clothes, grabbed his keys and walked to the nearest bus stop, to wait. Being there, he remembered trying for a whole month to exercise and he did good but no results were evident so he stopped. He wasn't a patient person, so doing exercise for days and days wasn't fun, or interesting or anything. It was just painful and empty. So he just quitted.

He got in the bus and traveled through town for around half an hour until he got down near a mall. He had to go inside and pay some bills his parents had left for him to pay, with their money of course, as he had none to spare.

Standing in line in the bank, he saw a good looking guy also waiting to be served. He was just perfect: blonde, skinny, skin the color of milk and nice behind. He was even well dressed.

To be honest, Brian hated that. People that went through life just being perfect, being the ideal every other normal guy wanted to be. He must even be good in bed and well endowed. That's what Brian thought, checking him out one last time before running his errands.

He had just the time to get to a nearby café and meet Anita. She was had been his best friend for a number of years and he had told every single part of his life to him. Even that time he tried to take his life.

The two hugged, kissed, asked for cappuccinos and started talking about college memories, people they had met and new developments on their lives. Brian talked a lot, mainly because he didn't get to do it as often at home. It was to tell your parents "I hate my life" without a lecture on how easy the solution was.

Anita said the same, though. And Brian got it, he wasn't stupid, but things were hard to do. He didn't have that drive to try new things. A major impediment was the money factor. He felt bad asking and asking and trying and trying, like an idiot.

He parted with Anita, who encouraged him for the last time but he just answered: "I only do one thing right and people don't wanna pay me for it. I'm fucked". And he didn't even feel passion for writing. He just did it.

Back home, he enjoyed silence for a bit and then watched a movie. But in all honesty, he was still thinking on how much he hated his belly, his penis, his face. He hated to be the one that has to try and try and not get anything. Not all people fight for what they have and still they have money, a job, love and much more.

Trying to dissipate those thoughts, he repeated to himself that he at least had a loving family. Although one day he had to leave that house or he would really feel awful.

At night, he published the first chapter of his only novel. That was the boldest thing he could do. The subject was hard to swallow and his writing skills could sure use improvement. But he did it anyway as that was the only thing he could do now, to ease the pain a bit.

The next day, he went to buy some cinnamon rolls for the night and something uncomfortable happened: a guy stared at him, as if he was checking him out. He just blushed, bought what he came for rapidly and ran out of the place like a lunatic.

It was still unbearable when people did that. So cruel even. He tried to forget about it for the rest of the day but couldn't. He decide to log on to his blog to check out if someone had written and comment but nothing. "Self centered bastards".

But the night was even stranger than the day. An old school friend called him to his cellphone. He said he had read his first chapter and told him he really liked. Brian was a bit embarrassed. The guy then said: "We should really meet some time". He was red as a tomato. His only answer was "Ok".

And then life went on with Brian. What happened with the caller or with his ambitions as a writer, I just can't tell you. Why? Because those things haven't happened yet, so we might have to wait for some time to pass until we know what kind of life Brian had.

domingo, 14 de septiembre de 2014

Afterwards

Helena got of bed carefully, not wanting to awake Dave. Last night had been fun but she saw no need of staying around, least of all in his bed.

She pulled the covers as slow as she could, thanked God for Dave being on a fetal position on the opposite side and tiptoed all the way the the bedroom's door. She opened it fast and closed it softly.

- Fuck!

She realized her clothes were in the room. She was only wearing her panties.

The young women, rather short and with a beautiful average body, entered the room again and stayed on the doorframe trying to locate her belongings: her stockings were just beneath the bed, her shoes just by them, her dress near the door and her purse under his briefs.

It was funny, but she had always being judgmental about men wearing briefs. She saw it as a childish thing to wear them but all indications lead to her not minding about that the night before.

As she took her clothes, Helena felt some nausea, feeling her head hurt as she bend over to grab her things.

She went out the room, again, and walked to the living room. She had to be honest, the view from there was just amazing: from there you could see all of downtown and even more. As she noticed the apartment was on a high floor, she decided to dress by the window, checking everything out.

The girl could see people walking on a park below, some cars passing by, a rather peaceful day. She recalled it was sunday but had no idea of the time. She grabbed her purse and pulled out her cellphone: almost dead. Any way, it was 1 PM.

She got scared as maybe her parents had called home or something, but she was soon put at ease when the cellphone begin ringing. As the volume was on full mode, she almost dropped it, scared Dave would wake up.

She went into a bathroom by the living room and closed the door. Now she could answer.

- Hi mom.
- Hey sweetie. Where are you?
- I'm buying bread.

She just said the first thing that came to mind.

- Oh, sleeping late?
- Yeah. Had Monica's birthday yesterday.
- Right... How was that?
- Good. Had... fun. Mom could I call you back when i get back home?
- Sure sweetie. I'll wait.
- Ok mom. Bye.
- Bye.

She hung up on the middle of her mother's "bye". It wasn't a good idea to keep talking in a place where there was a man she didn't wanted to confront.

Helena got out of the bathroom, put on her shoes and took a last look on a mirror Dave had as decoration. She was a little pale and her makeup was a mess. She decided to clean up her face so she entered the bathroom and rinsed her face with water. When she was ready to dried it up, she let out a scream as she saw the man on the bathroom mirror.

To be honest, she didn't screamed because she saw him awake. As she walked out the bathroom she confirmed what she saw: Dave was stretching, still half asleep, naked in front of her.

- Hey... - he said.

She didn't answer. Her face was soaking wet and it seemed as she had forgotten how to talk or move.

- You should dry yourself up. I don't like wet floors.

She reacted then and took a towel. As she did this, Dave entered the kitchen, only separated by the living room by a black marble counter. He turned on the coffee machine and took out a mug from a shelf.

No, Helena didn't even faked it: she saw his body as she hadn't seen it the night before. He was really not a model or the example of perfection but there was something really attractive. She couldn't really point out what it was.

- You want coffee?
- Sure.

No doubt. She needed coffee. She came out of the bathroom again and walked to the counter. He poured some coffee on two mugs and had a big sip before speaking again.

- Have to go?
- Yeah, kinda.
- Oh, ok... Last night was great.
- Guess so...

He smiled.

- What?
- You were drunk, I knew it.
- I wasn't!
- Yes, you were. Do you even remember it all?

It was not her style to lie. She didn't saw the utility of it.

- No.
- It's cool. Just a crazy night then.

He winked at her and drank some more coffee. She only sipped some, not really in the mood to stay longer.

- Look, I have to go.
- Sure, ok.

Helena walked to the door, grabbed the doorknob and turned to Dave.

- I remember you're great in bed and I hadn't had so much fun having sex or talking to sometime in quite some time. Thanks.

He smiled and raised his mug, as if toasting. She smiled too and went out the door.

Dave finished his coffee, scratched his belly and passed one hand over his hair. After thinking of her one last time, he took out some bread from the pantry and put them on the toaster.

He went to the living room to turn on the TV and entered the bathroom to pee. As he did so, he noticed something by the sink: Helena's cellphone.

Sure enough, just after Dave had put on his briefs, he heard the doorbell. Second chance was ringing.

viernes, 12 de septiembre de 2014

Lies

We love to believe them. They are comfortable an easy to accept and to live by. We don't really assume them as the truth but they are easy to come by and, let's face it, the truth is sometimes too much for many.

Let's say love. Many people still think they can change others or that love is eternal and forever. But we know what's real: no one changes for real, they only evolve in their ways of being. And love dies, and is reborn once and again. As we are beings of mutation and evolution, love is not bound to us and sometimes breaks during those transformations. It's unavoidable, unless the two people involved have worked for it.

Now, we have to state something else: the obsession of the human race for working and effort. Our humanity tells us that in order to be accepted and even admired, we have to work our bodies off to get somewhere and then, we will have recognition.
But is that really the way things should be? Some people say they work hard all their lives to have a better life but they realize that they never enjoy the life they have worked for. Is that really the life we should have? Or the one we want to have?

What about a life of going after what you want? About discovering your needs and passions? Many think they only can do that when they're young, in school. That's way many young people do drugs, have sex, crazy parties and trips. They think they have to gather memories for the future as their adult lives may not enable them to enjoy the things they like in the future.

That's no way of living, although is a respectable one. Many people worry about money and, unfortunately, they have to. They have no chance of avoiding the responsibility of work, unless they have no real goals.

And that's another problem nowadays: people who have no passions or goals are ostracized, as if working hard made them better than others. The world today has created levels and ranks, making certain people admirable and others, not. Those who work and show their work, are admired, even if their real effort was to look for the right people and doing something slightly better than the rest.

No goals means no ambition and this world runs on ambition. We are made to think we need more and, no surprise, most people work hard to get things that they already have or that they really don't need. In many countries it's more important to buy a TV or a car, rather than assuring a good education or healthcare.

More listings have being created even to classify us, to separate us in groups, in order to divide us even by the way we look: ugly, good looking, fat, skinny,... Or by our perceived behavior: rebellious, slut, intelligent, dumb, empty, sportive,...

And what about creativity? In our world, creativity is only appreciated if it server the general need for more of the same. The most award "creators" are the ones working for advertising companies. It has being proven that most campaigns in that world are rip offs one of the other and of the other. Less than 10% are actually original and even when they are, they serve only the great capital and no the people.

So, when our capacity to create is put aside, scientific thought is also put aside. Many countries prefer to invest their earnings in weaponry and other defense related items. Science is not really appreciated, even in "first world" countries. If the United States invested less in war and more in science, many needed discoveries would have already taken place.

We have been obliged to comply with physical models, for men and women, that are impossible or unlikely. Companies want people to think that they will be much more desirable if they are seen in the gym or doing some kind of exercise. The fact that exercising is good for your health, is almost not important. Looking good is what's important.

Our world is one of lies that we decide to live by. But what if we just said "Fuck it" and started living by our standards? Not everyone has to go at the same pace to get somewhere. If your friend is a successful actress, good for her. But do not try to be like her, try to discover who you are, good and bad, and go from there.

We are told to be fast and not stop because time is money. But time is also life and life, if science is correct, is not done twice by the same entity so we have to live as we want to and not as we are told to.

Let's always remember no to divide ourselves in tiny groups and ranks. That creates discrimination and discrimination leads to hate and hate is no way to live life. Just go as you want and see how much more fun life is if you just do your thing.

miércoles, 10 de septiembre de 2014

To Heal and Live

 * This piece of writing is dedicated to all young men and women that have died because of the narrow and hateful minds of others. Love and peace.

  We were never the kind to dwell on anything. It was simple really: we were officially not wanted anywhere in the world. It wasn't surprising or confusing, just a bit painful.

People in general didn't care. That had enough with the war ravaging life here and there. Human rights were not really on the top of the list of things people cared any more. They just wanted to live in peace, like before. We did too and that's how we decided to leave.

Eric had learned that Iceland was a safe haven for many people and was being overlooked. This wasn't World War II, planes didn't need to stop in the middle of the ocean as they could easily do the trip.
Besides, Iceland had signed a pact with the Confederation: they wouldn't mess with them as long as they didn't mess with Iceland. Fair enough. The Confederation wasn't really interested in them, at least not yet, as they had bigger fish to capture.

The day Eric got with the news of our future journey on the Aurora, a freight boat bound for Canada, it didn't came up as a surprise when we the news broadcasted live the invasion of West Africa by the Confederation. Horrible images of gruesome deaths and bombing were broadcasted daily and, as the country had surrendered to the confederation, they had to show it all, no editing.

We gathered the few possessions we still had, put them on one big suitcase and hugged goodbye our families. It was clear that it might be the last time we saw them, so we were sure to say it loud one last time, in case they died or we died. That was the reality of things.

For one whole day we hitchhiked to the coast. Many men and women were heading there: they thought that there was still a chance to head out of the country as the Confederation hadn't invaded yet. The government, strangely, didn't care or was sure no one would be successful. No one really knew.

I said goodbye to my city too. Bombings and rioting had left the mountains hollow at some points. It had always being a rather grayish city but now that gloomy ambiance was permanent and real.

The rest of the journey was easy: several days on the Aurora, helping the sailors and becoming sailors ourselves. We worked hard, helping with everything but we knew nothing of the sea. We didn't feel relieved when we got to Saint John: we had learned to loved the sea in just those few days and we felt the ocean might be the perfect getaway from the crumbling world around us.

But we had to go on. We were careful as the Confederation had been in control of the territory for quite some time but they still permitted life to go on as normal as it could. For three days, we avoided contact with anyone, hiding in almost destroyed buildings or in the surrounding wilderness. Finally, one night, we entered an oil tanker bound for Reykjavik and prayed for the boat to sail soon.

And it did. They discovered us but we begged for them to let us go as soon as we got to the mainland. Of course, we had to make an agreement: we were slaved for the duration of the journey. Everything from kitchen duties, to moping floors and cleaning bathrooms. I cried every night, wishing all would end. Eric couldn't infuse me with positivism as he felt exactly the same.

We we got to Iceland, we realized the journey wasn't over. The capital was filled with confederates and we needed to avoid them at all costs.

The truth is that we were part of the resistance, the one that existence for just a few weeks before the invasion of our country and the signature of the annexation treaty. A puppet president, a former president to be exact, was established and we became something less than a colony. Eric and I met for the first time after I had put a bomb on an official's car. He saved me from being arrested and I thank him for that up to this day.

We offered our work as fishermen and soon we had steady jobs, fishing herring of the coast. Our boss was a fat oppressive man, but he was fair nevertheless. He never missed a payment and even let us live on one of the boats.

Two months after arriving in Iceland, we were sent to Akureyri, a small port in the north coast. We sailed alone, the two of us in our boss's boat. I think that was when I really fell in love with Eric. The beautiful scenery, the relative calm and the fact that we could finally be open without anyone looking, pointing or eavesdropping, were all ingredients for it.

But life was a bitch with us, with all the letters. In Akureyri we met with the boss's son, who wanted us to fish in some dangerous places. We were obliged to do it as we had no papers and, officially, immigrants were banned. So we did it, we had to use explosives for fishing and I almost blew a hand off when using one.

It all ended one night, after we had arrived from our fishing trip. We were exhausted and in need of food. We didn't had much money so we shared a plate of herring and a beer. And then, again, the looks came back. It was like being in our country all over again. We finished fast and left the place.
A group of men followed us, surrounded us and beat the crap out of us, with a metal pipe and their arms and legs.

We thought that they were going to leave us there, in a dim lit street, but they decided to put us on one of their cars and rode for more than an our. I was on the edge of fainting but couldn't. Eric did faint but he was woken up when they got us out the car, by the road and the started again. They spitted us at the end and one of them peed on our heads. They laughed and threatened us and then they left. I finally fainted, wishing I was dead once again. I thought that if needed, I would kill myself if I woke up.

Sure enough, we didn't died. I woke up to a sniffing and licking dog. He was a shepherd dog. I recognized it as my grandfather had one when I was little. I could only open my eyes a bit but not talk or stand. I couldn't see Eric and I thought of his death. And I cried, with horrible pain all over.

So it happens, the dog's name was Odin, as the norse god. And his owners were farmers. They owned sheep in a small farm near Lake Logurinn. I have no idea how these two elderly people could do it but hey put both of us on the back of their car, alongside bags of manure and dog food. I fainted and had a an awful dream, of the beating and Eric dying. It seemed to go on forever until I woke up.

It was a beautiful little house, made of wood, as if it had been taken out of a fairytale. The room was small, only big enough for a double size bed and a furnishing with some drawers. After I had overcome the pain of my injuries, I noticed Eric sleeping besides me. He wasn't dead. I hugged him, hard, not caring for our physical pain. Him being there was everything.

We recovered slowly but steadily. Antonia and Carl told us we reminded them of their two sons that had left the country to fight the Confederation in Canada, some years ago. They decided to pick us up and help us as they thought of our parents.
We told them our story, nothing edited out of it and they offered us their home and kindness. They lived on the cotton they could sell and asked us for help so we learned the craft and in a few months we became farmers.

It was painful but, in order to fit in completely, I had to change my name. I became Johannes. Eric's name was just perfect, as he was after all that happened. Often alone on the hills and fields, we could really fall in love with each other. sharing every single part of our lives. And we were fine with it. Only taking his hand made me feel safe, even if this place seemed to have been forgotten by the world. The Confederation never came here, we were told by our friends, they only cared for resources and the vicinity was deprived of minerals or anything they would care to steal.

A year after our arrival in the country we were able to build a small house near our friends home. We did it ourselves with stones and wood. I think that helped us regain some trust in ourselves and makes us heal psychologically.

And that was our life. For five years, before the Big Battle, we were happy and everything was perfect. It wouldn't last forever but that wasn't important: we were given time with each other and to heal and I have always being grateful for that.

sábado, 6 de septiembre de 2014

New Freedom

Official Transcript # 485

Interrogation officer: Please, state your name.
Inmate 3063: My name is Jordan Skye.
I.O: Louder, please.
J.S: I'M JORDAN SKYE!
I.O: Occupation?
J.S: Special agent of the UN special forces unit.
I.O: Can you prove that?

Silence. Jordan sighs.

J.S: Not at the moment.
I.O: Why?
J.S: No papers, man.
I.O: Please sum up the events occurred on September 6th.
J.S: That was the day after the invasion.
I.O: Proceed.
J.S: I was part of a small group that came in with the rebels, on their ships. As they took the city, we had a special priority.
I.O: Which was?
J.S: Capture Minister Sumter.
I.O: What were your orders regarding him?
J.S: Capture and bring him to justice.
I.O: Which justice?

Again, Jordan sighs, tensioned.

J.S: Had to take him to Geneva.
I.O: What happened September 6th?

Jordan fists close, as if imagining the man's neck.

J.S: The rebels were winning. You were winning.
I.O: We know.
J.S: I fucking bet that.
I.O: Keep going.
J.S: My team was composed of seven men and women. Three of them had to secure Sumter. My partner and I were the ones that had to going in his office and take him.
I.O: Partner?
J.S: My husband.
I.O: The new government overruled those rights. Are you aware of it?
J.S: I don't give a shit.

The interrogation officer moves on his chair but doesn't say a word.

I.O: You failed. Why?
J.S: Supporters of Sumter overran me and my team. They started to chase us. I lured them to me in order for my team to be extracted by fellow rebels.
I.O: No report of that on our data.
J.S: Secret operation, genius.
I.O: You were captured by those men, correct?
J.S: That's right.
I.O: Then, you were rescued by the new government on September 10th, correct?
J.S: Rescued is a strong word.

The room feels too cold. Jordan wraps his arms around himself trying to the cold not to diminish his spirit.

I.O: What happened between your capture by those men and your extraction?
J.S: You know what happened. You did the tests.
I.O: Please, sum up for record.

Jordan tries to talk but his mouth feels dry. There's a glass of water on the table but he doesn't take it. He wets his lips with his tongue and talks.

J.S: I was held prisoner in some old barracks or a hangar. I don't really know.
I.O. Hangar A-03, Sumter Military Base.
J.S: Ok... I was tortured by the group of men that captured me.
I.O: Were you visited by Sumter during that time?
J.S: Never.
I.O: What kind of torture were you submitted to?

The man looks at the officer and smiles.

J.S: This is fucked up.
I.O: Please state the nature of...
J.S: They raped me, ok?! They fucked me with a stick or something and tortured me with water and punched and hit me, for hours.
I.O: Were you given food or water?
J.S: What a fucking stupid question.
I.O: What happened on September 10th?
J.S: You people showed up and apparently took me here.
I.O: What happened before that?

Jordan stands up, annoyed.

J.S: None of your business.
I.O: This is a report for the republic. We need...
J.S: You don't need shit!
I.O: Our team extracted a body along with yours. Whose body was it?

Shadows do not allow Jordan to see his interrogator well but he tries to glare at him, hurt.

J.S: You have his body?
I.O: Yes. Who is he?
J.S: You have my husband.
I.O: Those rights were...
J.S: Fuck you! That man got in that airbase and attempted to save me. He did something as you stood there, forgetting what we did to let guys like you keep on living.
I.O: He was unsuccessful.
J.S: They caught him. He was framed. They beat him up in front of me. They made me watch...

Jordan has started crying, in silence.

J.S: Then, they told him because of his bold act he had to see me go. Turns out, right in the moment they were going to kill me, the gang's leader changed his mind and shot him in front of me. I fainted after screaming my lungs out. I woke up here. In this prison.

The interrogation officer stands up and exists the room. Jordan walks to the door but they shut it. He then hears a voice on the speakers.

I.O: Thank you, Jordan Skye. You may go to your cell now.

Another door, on the opposite wall, opens. But Jordan does not walk towards it.

J.S: I told you everything. Let me go now.
I.O: You will be released in due time. Have a good sleep.

Two men enter the room. Jordan tries to fight but they have a needle, the needle he has learned to fear. He slowly falls asleep, letting go, again.

viernes, 5 de septiembre de 2014

En el tren

La estación estaba repleta, como siempre en la hora pico de la noche. Casi no se podía circular por los andenes y muchas personas cargaban paquetes y maletas grandes. Estaba claro que no solo operaban a esa hora trenes de cercanías sino también a ciudades más lejanas.

Martha se abrió paso con dificultad, con el billete del tren en una mano y halando una pequeña maleta con la otra. En una de las pantallas veía el nombre del destino y suspiró al sentir el calor generado por la gran cantidad de personas.

No pasaron ni cinco minutos cuando un tren blanco, haciendo bastante ruido, entró a la estación. Muchas de las personas en el andén se alistaron y pocos minutos después abordaron el tren.

Martha se sentó en el último coche, lejos del ruido de la parte frontal. Puso su pequeña maleta en la estructura metálica sobre los asientos y se sentó justo debajo, junto a la ventana.

El tren rápidamente tomó velocidad y una pequeña pantalla empezó a listar las próximas paradas: la de Martha era la última, lo que hacía que el viaje durara unas 2 horas. Había 3 paradas antes, la próxima a unos 45 minutos.

Un par de asientos fueron ocupados pero no se podía decir que el tren estuviera relleno ni mucho menos. De hecho, en el grupo de cuatro sillas donde estaba Martha, no había nadie más.

De un bolso que tenía en el hombro, la mujer de 30 años sacó una tableta electrónica y empezó a leer un libro. Lo había dejado en la mitad, oportunamente cuando la joven heroína se disponía a viajar en el Orient Express.

Cuando llegaron a la siguiente parada, Martha se había aburrido de leer y había empezado a jugar un juego de colores y esferas y demás. No era una opción ver por la ventana ya que todo estaba sumido en la oscuridad, así ahora las luces de la estación iluminaran un poco el panorama.

Fue en esa estación que un hombre, tal vez cinco años mayor que ella, se sentó en el asiento de enfrente. Ella apenas lo miró por encima de la pantalla de su aparato cuando el hombre guardaba su maleta y se sentaba, él sí mirando por la ventana, hacia la oscuridad.

Martha se aburrió rápido de su juego y, por primera vez, miró a la cara de su compañero de viaje, que miraba las luces lejanas de alguna ciudad.

 - Guille?

El hombre se incorporó, como si acabara de despertarse de una siesta. Miró a Martha fijamente, entrecerrando los ojos y finalmente su cara formó una sonrisa.

 - Tata?
 - Sí, soy yo.
 - No te reconocí cuando subí.
 - Nadie pone mucha atención en los trenes - dijo ella, riendo tontamente.

Esto último no sabía porque lo hacía. De pronto se acordara de aquella época, en el colegio, en la que había coqueteado con Guille en su último año y se habían dado un beso el último día de clases, sin verse uno al otro nunca más.

 - Que has estado haciendo? No nos vemos hace mucho.

Él también recordaba el beso. Siempre le había gustado Martha pero nunca tuvo el coraje de decírselo en el colegio.

 - Pues trabajo como corredor de bolsa.
 - En serio? Debes ganar mucho dinero.
 - No me puedo quejar.

Guille se había divorciado hacía unos pocos meses e iba de camino a ver a sus hijos, que ahora vivían con la madre.

 - Y tu?
 - Voy de camino a ver unos inmuebles. Trabajo en una inmobiliaria.
 - Divertido, no?
 - A veces. Se conoce mucha clase de gente.

Ese mismo día, más temprano, Martha había entregado las llaves de una casa a una pareja bastante extraña: habían hecho preguntas del tipo "estas paredes son gruesas de verdad o se oye a través" o "el piso es fácil de limpiar".

De pronto había aparecido un hombre de la empresa ferroviaria, revisando los boletos. Martha y Guillermo le habían dado sus billetes y el hombre los había recibido alegremente, con una sonrisa e incluso una broma.

  - También te bajas en la última parada? - preguntó Guille a Martha cuando el revisor había dejado el coche.
 - Tu igual?
 - Sí. Que raro no?

Ambos estaban felices por esta coincidencia. Sentían que había algo que no se había terminado de cerrar cuando habían estado en el colegio y cada uno por su lado sabía que no había mucho que se los impidiera.

 - No estás casada...
 - Disculpa?
 - Lo siento, noté que no tienes argolla.
 - Tranquilo. Sí, no estoy casada. Nunca me casé de hecho. Tu?
 - Divorciado

Y esa pregunta desencadenó una larga conversación sobre las relaciones humanas y lo difícil que era ajustarse a otro ser humano, a veces tan diferente y otras veces tan parecido.

Martha recordó pero no habló de su más grande amor, un joven en la universidad que la cambió por una chica más bonita, de un día para otro. Guille recordó a su ex esposa y sus constantes discusiones.

La charla se alargó tanto que siguieron hablando de ello cuando el tren por fin se detenía en la última estación. Cuando salieron del vagón, caminaron juntos a la salida de la estación y rieron recordando anécdotas colegiales mientras esperaban el autobús respectivo.

La verdad era que Martha usaba otra línea de autobús, diferente a la de Guille, pero él había propuesto ir a comer algo y la vida de la mujer ya era muy monótona y negarse a una invitación como esta hubiera sido una tontería.

Mientras comían una hamburguesa, ambos pensaban en las posibilidades que la vida les ofrecía. Después de todo, coincidir en un tren parecía sacado de una romántica película del pasado.

jueves, 4 de septiembre de 2014

Letter for me (Part 4)

Hey me,


I write you, or me, from my bedroom. Strange, huh? Well, another week passed and more happened. So here it is.

I decided to be honest with the family. They are not to blame in any of this and I had to tell someone about all of this. I mean, after the last letter I remember feeling I was going crazy. I didn't know what was real or not.

So after coming back from "jogging" around the neighborhood, I decided to tell Susan everything. She very patient and calm. She just sat there and let me say every single thing that I had been thinking and feeling, including the fact that I believe this is not my life and that they are not my family.

When I said that, I saw here eyes filling with tears but she contained them as long as she could. I didn't know she was such a strong person, so well put together. She's a therapist, you know? Maybe that's why after talking for thirty minutes straight and then falling silent, she just grabbed my hand and hugged me.

Susan told me she knew something was wrong and that she was happy I finally decided to tell her. She said she loved me and wanted all the best for me. She even offered taking me to a friend of hers, a psychiatrist. Susan think it will help.

To be honest, it has not helped me one bit. I have been going once every day, so I've seen that creepy guy five times. And believe me, you don't get used to someone picking your brain with stupid questions for one hour. I hate going there but Susan seems to be happy about it and I don't want to disappoint her.

And, to be honest, what else is there for me now? That life I had o r think I had has been dead for far to long because I can't seem to get a grip of it.

I know, the drawings... Yeah, that keeps popping in my head from time to time. It's one of those things I've discussed with the shrink but he says I have been putting things I read into Linda's drawings and that I see what I see because I want to see it. Crazy, right? Not surprising though.

But I do. And even Henry does. I asked him to tell me what he saw in the drawings and I'm not insane, I see what he sees.

By the way, I finished the book. The writer has various adventures, like a big spy or something, and at the end, I mean in the last 10 pages, he dies. He's shot in the head by a drug dealer. Linda drew me in a pool of blood. I screamed at the girl and then she cried and then I fought with Susan. That was just some hours ago.

That's why I'm alone in my bedroom. Actually, alone in the house. Susan took the kids to her mother's house and told me to cool down for the night. She didn't seem angry but scared. She seems to think that a night away from them might do me some good but I believe she was scared I might hit her or the kids.

I went crazy. I yelled and hit myself on the head with my fists and punched the wall. My hand hurts as I write.

You know what's funny? My head started to hurt just after I saw the drawing Linda did for me. It's a piercing pain on the back of my head, just as if I had been hit with a blunt object.

I don't want to sleep. It's 3 AM but I don't dare to close my eyes. What if this all goes away too? What if I don't go back to being a writer but I just fade away into another life? I wouldn't be able to take it. I know I can't.

Please be with me. Help me. I'm scared.








*           *           *

The hallway is white. No other color on sight. A woman, rather short, enters a room. Inside an elderly woman cries next to the only bed in the room.

A young man lies there, with tubes coming from all places, breathing through a machine.

- The doctor is ready Mrs. Dominguez.

The elderly lady is squeezes one of the man's hands as a man in a white robe enters the room.

- Do you want to be present? - he says to the woman.

She nods. Tears keep pouring out of her eyes but she makes no noise.

The doctor and the nurse start pressing buttons, pulling out tubes until only one machine is attached to the man in the bed.

The elderly woman comes near and kisses the man on the forehead.

- Bye, Alex. Mama loves you.

The machine starts beeping and finally the sound of death engulfs the room.

miércoles, 3 de septiembre de 2014

Carta Para Mi (Parte 3)

Querido tú (o yo),


Siento preocuparte, posiblemente sin necesidad si no recuerdas nada, pero los últimos días han sido de lo peor y con graves consecuencias para ambos.

Te escribo desde un pequeño parque al que vine bajo el pretexto de trotar un poco. Le dije a Susana que sentía que me estaba creciendo la panza y salí sin mayores explicaciones. La verdad no tengo el menor interés en saber si me creyó o no.

Esta semana en la oficina ha sido como los primeros días: sin problemas. He conocido mucha gente que al parecer ya conocía y a otros que nunca había visto esta versión de nosotros. Nada importante con eso a excepción de lo que pasó en uno de los almuerzos a los que tuve que ir.

Fue en un museo, en un elegante y pequeño restaurante donde comimos poco y cerramos algunos tratos con otro banco. En un momento tuve que ir al baño por lo que crucé frente a la librería del lugar. Por lo que sé, en esta realidad no soy muy adicto a la lectura pero creo que sí lo era en la otra... El caso es que me detuve al ver la portada de uno de los libros en la vitrina.

No, no había una foto nuestra. Solo pasó que reconocí el título del libro: "Atardecer bajo los olivos". Entré al lugar y leí que el autor era un colombiano con un nombre que no me recuerda a nadie. Pero por alguna razón sentí que sabía algo de ese libro, como si lo hubiera leído muchas veces.

Tanta fue mi sorpresa que compré una copia y empecé a leerlo en mis momentos libres. No te lo vas a creer pero el personaje principal es muy parecido a lo poco que recuerdo de nuestra vida pasada: un escritor solitario que vive aventuras en Europa y otros exóticos lugares. Siento que conozco esos lugares... Cada vez más creo estar loco.

El otro suceso extraño ocurrió ayer viernes, en la noche. La pequeña Linda se me acercó y me dio, una vez más, uno de sus dibujos. Tal vez porque había estado muy distraído o por lo cansado que llego del trabajo o por el hecho de sentir que me estoy enloqueciendo, no había puesto nunca atención a los dibujos de la niña, de mi hija.

En el que me entregó ayer antes de cenar, había un pequeño personaje. Estaba en un balcón viendo hacia un acantilado. La casa donde estaba el personaje estaba rodeada de muchas otras casas blancas y azules. El mar era azul y el personaje, se me olvidaba decirte, no estaba solo. Había otro muñeco al lado.

- Quienes son? - le pregunté a mi hija.
- Este eres tu. - me dijo señalando al personaje que estaba apoyado en la baranda del balcón.
- Y el otro.
- Es tu amigo.

Eso me dejó desconcertado. Que hace mi hija dibujándome con otro hombre en lo que parece una isla paradisiaca?

Después de la cena revisé los otros dibujos y había varias escenas: en una el personaje, siempre vestido de gabardina negra, estaba en la playa con un edificio en forma de vela detrás de él. En otro dibujo estaba escribiendo en un pequeño cuarto, con la torre Eiffel a la vista por la ventana. El más más extraño de todos era uno en el que solo se me veía de espaldas, frente a una ventana enorme. Del otro lado se veía una avenida, con algunos buses y personas circulando por ella.

Le pedí que me dijera de donde había sacado tantos lugares y a otros personajes, pero solo dijo que se los había imaginado. La verdad es que no le creo nada aunque tal vez eso sea porque cada vez que miro los dibujos me estremezco, se me pone la piel de gallina.

Ah, se me olvidaba un detalle. Resulta que el personaje del libro del museo tiene varias escenas parecidas a los dibujos! Por eso mi reacción fue bastante notoria e incluso Enrique se lo hizo ver a Linda y Susana en la cena. Tuve que decir que era por el estrés del trabajo pero no creo que se lo hayan creído mucho.

Será que somos un personaje de un libro? Eso suena ridículo pero a estas alturas nada se me hace muy extraño. La verdad es que no sé ya que explicación darle a todo esto.

Lo que sé es que no pertenezco aquí y también sé que ese pasado, u otra realidad o lo que sea, ya no existe si es que existió. Tal vez sí estoy loco y me lo estoy imaginando todo o tal vez solo sea un asunto de percepción.

Eso último me dolería. Sería bastante horrible no reconocer a mis hijos como propios, lo mismo con mi esposa. Pero la realidad es que así es y por eso quisiera que ellos no fueran en realidad mi familia.

No sé que hacer. Tuve que sacar una hoja (podrás ver lo arrugada) y un bolígrafo de la casa como si fueran drogas o algo por el estilo. Lo hice sin que nadie me viera y encontré este pequeño parque solitario para escribirme.

Lo seguiré haciendo tanto como pueda pero algo me dice que esto no puede durar mucho. Algo o alguien tiene que ceder, como oí decir por ahí.

Me despido ya. Deben estar preocupados. Revisaré de nuevo los dibujos y al parecer tengo que llevar al niño a un partido de fútbol o béisbol o algo por el estilo. En fin...


No te olvides de ti,

Alex.


P.S: Se me olvidaba contarte que el gato blanco no aparece. La niña lloró todo el jueves pero ya está más calmada. La desaparición de esa bola de pelos no ayuda mucho a esta confusión.

martes, 2 de septiembre de 2014

Letter for me (Part 2)

Hello you,


or should I say "me"? This is getting weirder and weirder. Yesterday I couldn't keep writing because I had to sign loads of papers and then go home and be with the family.

Not my family but the family. I still don't get how this happened. I've tried going over and over it but I keep forgetting things. Had to read yesterday's letter in order to remember about the dog! Not that anyone cares... I have a cat now, Snow or something like that. He's always very creepy appearing in weird places and looking straight at me as if he knew something I don't.

The work is not that bad though. It appears I have been a pretty good accountant and my position here seems to be very well respected. Everyone greets me when I come in the morning and they wave at lunch time. There's even a young woman that flirted with me on the elevator, by showing a little too much cleavage and biting her lower lip. It's weird but I don't think our past self likes that.

That's something else I've forgotten: I have no idea if we had a girlfriend, a wife or if we just lived alone in an apartment. I don't feel like a party boy but not like a husband or father either.

Actually, that's one of the upsides of this "reality", if you will. Linda is the tiny one. She's actually seven years old, not six as I first thought. She's a sweetheart and up to this moment she has handed me at least ten drawings done specially for me. Yesterday night I told her a bedtime story and for a moment I didn't even care about all of this. She looked so peaceful and happy...

Henry is the name of our son. He's 11 and looks more like Susan (wife) than like us. The girl is more like us, so that's why I think I like her better. The boy likes sports a lot: he was playing football with friends when I got home yesterday and Susan told me he had judo practice today. He didn't get it from me though, not past or present. I remember, and feel, that we never liked any kind of physical exercise. Furthermore, I've looked through some photo albums (telling Susan I felt like reviewing the past) and saw that in this version of us we have no interest for sports either.

Actually that move was kinda dangerous. Susan, who is quite beautiful and sweet, wanted to have sex when seeing the pictures of the wedding. To be honest, I wanted to keep watching them as I had no recollection of that ever happening. The saddest part is that I didn't recognize who Susan called "your parents". Two nice people smiling me from a picture and I have no idea of who they are...

No, I didn't have sec with her. I told her I had to get some things ready for work and just sprung out of bed. I spent almost all night wandering around my office (a fucking office in the house!) thinking of the pictures and those memories that I don't have.

I have a theory now and I want to share it with you. I believe someone has to have our memories. Probably the man that lived here woke up in our old life. I can't stop but hating him but I guess that, if he exists, he's really not to blame.

Almost no sleep is giving me a headache but it was just impossible. I've gone all through the house, the details of this life and I have no recollection of anything. I just don't know any of these people. I don't even know if we lived in this city or this country for that matter. I'm trying to teach myself how to behave and breath because I may go insane. I feel it.

Maybe that's another explanation? What if this is all a reality I've created after having a seizure or a breakdown? I think it's possible although is not a really nice thought.

To be honest, I can't say I want to go back because I keep losing more and more of that life and keep feeling obliged to do my part here. Susan, Linda and Henry have no fault in this and I can't keep but thinking about their reaction if I told them about this.

Man, I know your are me. But this is the only way to keep me sane. At least until I start to get all of this, at least a bit more.

Well, time to go. Some big shot invited me to lunch and I had to say yes. I guess that's what this guy is all about.


Keep it real,

Alex.


P.S: Don't you think it's weird we are named Alex in both versions? That makes me crazy.

domingo, 31 de agosto de 2014

Stop

Work, work, work. Break. Some coffee, by the window. Work, work, work. Another coffee, now walking to someone else's office. Work, work, work. Lunch time.

This is it. His time has come to opt out of everything he has always seen as he's life. This is no life.

Instead of eating with the same person he has always done so for the last 3 years, this man decides to go home and pack.

Where to go? Not important. But life's grip is tightening to much and he cannot keep fighting it.

Some shirts, couple of pants, two pairs of shoes and some underwear. That should be enough. He takes his passport, in the eventuality of traveling abroad. There are no real plans about where to go but that's precisely the idea.

He checks his phone: no calls, no messages, nothing. Better, he thinks, if they believe he's running late or has had some kind of problem.

Takes the backpack and walks to the door. After closing properly, he pushes the elevator's button and then a woman, older than him but still beautiful, stands closely. Her hair is messy, she even appears to be missing a day or two of careful grooming.

He looks at her big running pants and old shirt. There appears to be a lot of dust on her shoulders.

- It's taking quite long. - she says.

- Yeah... - he answers, no idea what's she's talking about.

No, he doesn't like to chat with strangers. But she does.

- You live here? - she asks.

- Leaving for some weeks.

Why he answered that, he has no idea. He's starting to sweat.

- I'm moving in. So weird to move from another city.

- Must be.

He really doesn't want to talk.

- Am I making you uncomfortable? - she asks, looking at him.

He cleans  some of the sweat off his forehead. He decides not to say a word.

- Sorry, I tend to over talk. Guess I'm nervous for the new job and everything.

Then something clicks inside his mind, like a key entering the keyhole.

He turns to her, watching her honey colored eyes and says:

- Don't you get fucking trapped by that job, ok?

He's dead serious. She knows it.

- Never become a zombie like they want you to be. Think for yourself, even if they don't give a fuck about it.

- Ok.

He falls silent.

She suddenly says he has remembered something at home and leaves, without saying a word.

The elevator arrives. He comes in and tightens the backpack.

As the door closes, he faintly smiles, rising his head, finally feeling as a real free man.

viernes, 29 de agosto de 2014

La casa de ladrillo

Ya estaba sentado en el sofá, sonriendo, viéndolos reír. Contaban sus historias uno a uno, dándose momentos para reflexionar, para preguntar, para reír de nuevo o para hacer silencio. Era como si lo hubiesen hecho así durante tanto tiempo que romper la rutina ya no era una posibilidad.

Me removía en mi asiento, algo incomodo por estar en un lugar en el que jamás había puesto un pie. Pero no solo era esta la razón, la verdad era que mi anfitrión, el dueño de la casa de ladrillo, era alguien que me inquietaba pero a la vez me llamaba la atención.

No recuerdo bien como ni donde nos conocimos. Lo único que sé es que ese día estaba allí, con su familia y con él, contando historias como si nos conociéramos de hace años.

Las pocas veces que me miraba, mientras su familia compartía otros recuerdos entre ellos, sentía que su mente se adentraba en mi, como si se tratara de un veneno. Su mirada no era verdaderamente aterradora pero si sobrecogía con facilidad, poniéndome la piel de gallina.

Estaban sus abuelos, sus padres, su hermana y los hijos de ella. Y yo. Y él.

La noche llegó a la casa de ladrillo y su madre y hermana habían preparado algo de comer. En todo ese tiempo me sentía como un fantasma. Ellos poco me miraban y muchos menos me hablaban. El único que me perforaba con la mirada, a ratos, era él, el dueño de la casa.

Ya tarde su familia se fue a dormir pero yo me había quedado en la sala de estar, sin nada que hacer. Como siempre en estos casos, no sabía muy bien que hacer ni adonde ir o, viendo el caso, si debería irme.

De pronto se me acercó, me tomó de la mano, y me llevó debajo de la casa. El sótano no era muy amplio y olía a humedad. Me haló ligeramente hacia a un lado y entonces lo vi.

Había un espacio en la pared. No era excavado como los de las películas de fugas sino un pasillo, de ladrillo como la casa, que llevaba hacia algún otro lado.

Sin decir nada, me soltó la mano y se adentró en el pasillo. Traté de seguirlo por el estrecho corredor pero apenas toqué la piedra roja, varios pensamientos atacaron mi mente. Pero no eran pensamientos míos.

Imágenes de mi anfitrión se mezclaban con escenas borrosas y oscuras de gritos y quejidos, gemidos y respiraciones aceleradas. No eran mis pensamientos, eran sus recuerdos.

Me dejé caer al piso y estiré la mano para alcanzarlo pero ya estaba muy lejos dentro del corredor y yo no podía moverme. Las imágenes me habían causado un gran dolor de cabeza y no había manera de detenerlo.

Sin querer me apoyé en el muro y, de nuevo, sus recuerdos atacaron mi mente. Esta vez vi sangre, sentí el dolor de sus víctimas y sus gritos me perforaban los tímpanos.

Me empecé a golpear con fuerza la cabeza, buscando expulsar las oscuras imágenes de mi mente. Pero solo logré hacer retumbar mi mente con los dolorosos sentimientos que no me dejaban.

De pronto, sentí como si un demonio se apoderara de mi. Seguí golpeándome para expulsarlo a él y a los sombríos productos de mi atormentado ser. Me golpee la cara, el pecho, el estomago y mi pelvis.

Caí al piso sangrando, y ahí, por fin, todo terminó. Al poco tiempo retomé mi vida, todavía sintiendo en mi al terrible hombre de la casa de ladrillo.

jueves, 28 de agosto de 2014

The Celestials

I laid there and they came in, down the mountain, pass the stream.

Four, maybe five, walked slowly down the hill. Their limbs moving slightly as their legs transported their big, illuminated bodies closer to me.

No, they're not beings of light: they are made of stars. The deep black skin feels like a familiar fabric, their heads forming a beak and the back arched as if they've had to carry heavy burdens for far too long.

The time is short, but sweet. We hug and we play, all around the meadow and in an old ship, reminiscing of pirates that have never been here.

I never ask where they come from or why do they come to me. The happiness and comfort I feel being besides them prevents me from asking to many questions that do not need to be answered.

More people come down the mountain and join us. I do not know them or maybe  I do but it doesn't matter. The meadow feels like a safe place to be and maybe that's why we're all here.

Then, when standing against the sunlight, I can see a glimpse of who this being once was: a young, tall man. Hair the color of wheat and skin as pale as the moon. Who is he? Again, it doesn't matter.

The creatures stand by us, watch us laugh and eat and play and live. But they, the beings of celestial stuff, remain still, as if moving too much or too fast may break them. And we don't push for them to do anything they don't want to. Because, if they break, we break too.

No eyes to pierce with mine but I still try to see it again, the boy inside the stars. But there's nothing, only the thick blackness of space, splattered with millions of beautiful bright stars and galaxies, quasars and pulsars.

No... Not now... The moment has come when they begin to disappear, as mysteriously as they first came down the mountain. I try to grab his hand but there's nothing to grab anymore.

I wake up, in peace, but still worried. As I stand up, feeling the sheets off my body and the feel of the ground below my feet, there's a thought that dares not to live me.

I never had the chance to say "Thank you". For protecting me in the forever land of shadows, for taking care of my wounded body.

Slowly, my mind begins to erase the feelings and the thoughts done during the dream. But his face, the universal one, stays with me to fight the scolding light of reality.

miércoles, 27 de agosto de 2014

Los días

Está ahí, detrás de la puerta. Siento su oscuridad, su calor, su sencillez y su dolor.

No puedo moverme a voluntad. Y cuando lo logro, solo me lastimo a mi mismo, sirviendo su voluntad.

Él, solo él, me quiere bajo su manto. Es tranquilo, casi pasivo, esperando y sabiendo lo que pienso. Y mis pensamientos abren la puerta.

Pero es apenas un pequeño resquicio. Lo puedo ver por un instante, antes de que decida irse y dejarme solo por hoy.

Despierto sudando ligeramente, con las manos tensionadas y la espalda adolorida. Por un momento abro lo ojos más de la cuenta, tratando de sentir si este es el sueño o, peor aún, la realidad.

Mientras pongo los pies en el suelo, imagino tomando su mano tibia y caminando hacia las sombras.

Miedo? Sí, siempre. Pero el miedo es preferible al dolor. El dolor que siento al sentir el sol en mi piel, al escuchar las voces lejanas de aquellos que a veces se sienten tan cerca pero muchas veces tan lejos.

Y me encuentro a mi mismo encerrado, solo, desesperado y envuelto en un remolino de sensaciones en guerra al punto que mi cuerpo me traiciona y solo pienso en estar con él. Es un romance fatal pero hermoso, que no me atrevo a aceptar. No es por mi, es por otros.

Mi dolor es real. Lo siento al caminar y al oír mi voz, al respirar y al sentir el viento que sin misericordia me recuerda la mortalidad de esta mente que solo quiere verme caer.

El futuro es solo un hueco, un agujero negro eterno e incierto. Los envidio, a todos aquellos que ven un sinfín de colores y sentimientos en él. Yo no veo nada, no sé nada y no siento nada por él.

Pero aquel caballero detrás de la puerta, el de la expresión inerte, por él siento ráfagas de sentimientos que amenazan con acabar la poca sensatez que mi mente me brinda.

Noche tras noche, todos los días de mi vida, él está ahí. A veces se ausenta por largos periodos, pero como en una buena novela victoriana, siempre vuelve para cortejarme con su sola presencia y su innegable candidez.

No lo amo. El amor es débil y efímero. Esto es algo mejor y peor, algo más drástico pero sencillo, algo verdadero y, a la vez, una gran ilusión.

No sé si sea este el día, o mañana, en el que tome por fin su mano a través de la rendija de la puerta. El día en que su cálida presencia se mezcle con mi tambaleante ser, y me lleve en paz de la mano a través de los campos más allá de este insignificante mundo.

Aquí estoy, siempre decayendo. Siendo traicionado hasta el fin de los días por mi enemigo mayor.
Y ahí está él, detrás de la puerta, esperándome.