I never liked the way you start a text telling me to sleep, so full of arrogance and indifference that I can not feel guilty for loving both. Baroque are arbitrary, confusing, cryptic and repetitive, have you thought about dedicating yourself to the pastries or any art for your mentecita less complicated, love?, Questions with sarcasm. I make a gesture of weariness, as if not give more importance to your words and I head to another room. Give you three, four, five steps. Do not leave me talking to myself, asshole shit, I hear you cry with his fist raised. You can easily obscure, I know, but your reaction is completely disproportionate. With the index finger right hand I signal, you're crazy, I mutter under his breath. Look at him!, I join up as if you were judge and executioner of my life, this man who speaks of unbreakable promises and hidden meanings in the eyes is nothing more than a gentle no man's land, a metaphor of human incompetence, a be in-ca-establish peace in their ideas about what he's talking that much but that does not even know, you pause, you know how to cause maximum impact, and strikes: desire. Squints as if anger and resentment eaten your spirit, and when least expected ... smile. Your face stern face becomes a tender and loving, even arrogance, I am sure, preserved intact. Did you like, love, you ask? Good-girl voice, and urging me to give me offended or turned devour you with kisses. Wh-wh-what did you say?, I declare myself surprised by your change fleeting. What if you liked my acting, love?, Repeat. Your smile is your weapon, it has always been and I do not know what to say, beginning to stammer: yes, I liked it, I think I liked it, but I do not understand why ...
startled awake. The dream images are so clear. Turning to the side, look at my hands, I do not know why my hands always look like this after nightmares. I stand up and then I repeat softly, it was not you, you could never be her, it was not you ...
I think went back to sleep, I do not know for how long. I run slowly the curtains. No glare, no other days. It's early, must be seven or eight of-the-morning the-morning, "the morning is beautiful, just go for a walk, remember that you once and never came back. Truth does not know why you left. If there were fights, I forgot. If I hurt with my words, I've blocked. And yet here I am waiting for your return. The sky is cloudy. I open the window and a cold wind hits me in the face. Do not take in rain, I think without giving more importance to the issue. Below you can hear the normal bustle of the cooks who prepare breakfast for hotel guests. Run down to the buffet and then the first coffee, espresso not to forget the days of old, thoroughly reviewed the notes I made last night before falling asleep. Well, it seems that the ideas are clearer than usual, comforts me. Change page and find a point I do not remember ever written, the title says, fiction dans le milieu du monde.
"In the mornings you tend to write more honestly, but it's all camouflage. It's not forgotten, but it does not reproduce: never understand. The silence works better than empty words. The story that made you, the novel has not yet ended, the confession was lost, the plans do not know, the sigh that does not reach you, everything is here, save as you have taught me well. Too bad there are no safes feelings. And it's all illusion. And nothing matters. At least not for now ... I love you. "
I make an effort not to scream with fear and emotion. Suddenly everything makes sense.'s Dream, your anger, the silence of years, the pain of your absence last week and the uncertainty of your presence future. The waiter asks if I want more coffee. Yes please. And before the turn I say, is inevitable, I'm baroque and arbitrary, confusing, cryptic and repetitive, yes, but it is the only way I find to tell her, quietly, so you no longer need to read. Because they already know.
0 comments:
Post a Comment