Sunday, 28 June 2009

Unknown letter from unknown man





To whom it may concern,



Writing a letter to someone you haven't met is not as dumb as I thought. Nothing makes any sense any more, so I don't expect that what you will read will differ. I only want to open a hole in this wall and breathe while I can still do it.


Today I may have killed thirty or forty bodies, I lost all count. Captain M said I did a great job. My mother used to repeat the same thing when I came back from school with a good grade. I could easily grab those marks about history or maths. Now I can do it better with any shotgun. It is clean and fast, my ears don't hurt, my fingers are stuck on the trigger and my eyes only target the rest of the heads I can see.


They taught me to respect the others, to obey a system of rules based on the justice and fairness. While I speak, I still smell the last sighs of my last victim on my neck. I had to bury my knife to put an end to his motions. A.S were the letters written on his shirt. Normally I keep some belongings of the last victim of the day. I feel as if I owed them that. When you kill somebody you feel as if you took something from him, and i try to keep that in mind to remind myself that I am still sane.


So tonight, I will be AS for you. I live in I. and I have two kids and one dog. Not very original? I am happy, that's what's genuine about me. My father was in the army too, defending our country from the dangers from abroad. They tried to harm our innocent people and I dedicated my life to help the poor ones. Now I am here in the sand, helping my countrymen defeat the enemy. I wish I could see my wife again. She must be waiting in the dining room, with a cigarette on her mouth watching the sunset. I wish I was there, between her blouse and her heart.


Too bad AS will not be back to her wife, neither will I. This is the end of all the things, when you know that you've lost your humanity, the trace of nature in you has disappeared. It's funny that you become the devil they preach, the enemy is yourself because no one is as fierce as you. In this system I am one of the best. I work hard and my boss respects me. You pay me for doing this, a system that salutes the cruelty and the lack of humanity. If I come back you will feel ashamed of me, you will cross the street and ignore me as if I was one of those drunkards without a job.


At first I thought of that door home, open for me to come back. The smell of a nice meal and the great company of those who love you waiting there with a smile on their faces. But then i realised that my face will have changed, my mind and soul will have made me a difuse figure in the doorway. A face marked by crime, a mask covering what you called myself, a hideus portion of doom drilled under my ears, preventing you from seeing me. The new face so real and terrifying that you will not be able to separate it from my previous identity. Your fears will make it last forever on my face, even if the mirror still lies to me.


You will all close the door on me, you will kick me on the sides and make me bleed on the street. You will put some blanket on my corpse and label me unknown soldier.


As i think of this, I ask you to please understand that tomorrow I will kill again, here in this place that is all the hell i could ever think of. I will meet another A.S., B.G. or K.J. I will meet their wives and kids, I will feel their lives in me. And at the end of all this ruin of a past life, there waits no peace for me, no heaven or hell. My life will be taken by other, and maybe he will write about me too.

Regards, U.S.

Antes del sueño







Las palabras escaparon por la ventana por la que ahora me asomo.

El espacio se abre ante mí, aunque los ruidos se encojan y el alma tirite ante la imposibilidad de atrapar nada en este vacío negro y sucio de la noche.

El libro sobre la entrepierna, la copa de vino se mueve en el fino contorno de mis labios y deja escapar las gotas rápidamente en el fondo del laberinto de dudas internas.

Sollozo alterno, corriente contínua de barbaridades con cerrojo, llaves escogidas al azar de entre el amasijo de vidriosas ilusiones de edades varias y vicios cortos.

La silla es frágil, más vieja que el dueño, más ligera que los entresijos albergados por su jinete, cabalgando entre los balcones de la ciudad elegante y voluble. Calles sin asfalto, perros sin ladrido, comida sin plato.

El libro es eterno, el agujero del tiempo se centra en su interior y toda la sabiduría cae y reside en el torbellino de impaciencias vertidas con mesura y atención por el bohemio autor. El lector introduce su mente en ellas, cual cuchara de metal agitando el humeante líquido de tensión aguda y dolores crecientes.

La noche estival no es sino un ruido, frío y hábil que penetra en tus oídos y remueve tu conciencia a su antojo. El rítmo es variable, pero fértil en su humedad creativa, te mueve y te atrae como la marea en la última costa del remoto país dónde esperas reposar tu cabeza y recibir el descanso al fín.

El sueño, la palabra nunca recordada, el beso nocturno apenas sentido en la mejilla maquillada por el sabor del viento y el dolor interno de las noches sin día

Sunday, 14 June 2009

The book that never was




It was the same day, just some hours later.


It was dark again, and just some steps further from your view,
there were still some souls willing to ignore the noises above,
coming from the sky torn into pieces. Or so they wrote wisely
in the old book we could all read later.


Deep down the hill, there was a man walking under the rain. It was one of those humid and fetid displays of water sprayed upon the dirty land. Stained by the vices of lie, by the wine of remorse. Yet, to some nothing had changed. The man in rags proceeded his hard path to the top of the next montain to the broken bones had melted with the first traces of the Holy Grail. The sun had been buried forever on that old symbolic wood to where the nails of doom had been glued the pages of history to the same authors, the same characters and different visions.



But on this very uphill road, from where the smoke of the burning ashes of human depictable nature had been blown, another man was enduring the limits of physical pain. If there was a soul inside this languid flesh, then it might well be about to leave. The water had entered the pores of the cross, swallowing the evil spirits of the men that had concieved such a creation.


The weight was heavier, the man was hollower and there was no eye from a distant god gazing through the clouds. The torment was greater when the nails were inserted carelessly between his tendons, the blood around the holes was already a scar, a nasty and cruel smile closing on the metallic needles. The wood on his back had been erected and now was one with his spine. Soon his whole flesh would break and he would be another cloth devoided of truth in the Eastern lands of quenched sin


This would not be written on any book that people would refer to in big meetings, infesting buildings with gorgeous ornaments over sacred stones. His sufferings were not to be drowned in seas of human greed like the ones that were scattered from the tears of blood of the sacrificed hero. The blood would stay forever, deep inside the rock under the cross, a fossile of neglected fame, laying besides the feet of defeated glory.


And yet, on that very same place, just hours later, another man had been crying out loud to the Heavens. The mistery was there for everybody to be seen, but he was the only scent of humanity left in the area. Silence, ravens and a gluttonous moon would suffy to embrace the covers of the book you will never read.


Those letters, chapters and words could have changed the lives of many. If only someone had written the book that never was. The words were there, the truths designed by the tongue of peace, fighting to be spelled by stuttering hands, the odes to secret paths contoured by the lips of the owner of language. The real names would have been resting over the lines on the pages, in symmetry with the laws portrayed. No man would be able to manipulate, corrupt or alter them, such was their strength and unity.


But there was no page, no book, no writer. They had all left. And yet, one had a feeling that even Death would forget about this man, laying tortured on the crossroad of wood, the broken and twisted tree arm saluting to the wind but no breeze coming from North or South. The desert sound, the vultures satiated and engulfed by their previous feasts, the worms all driven out on an underground procession towards the lands of fools.


The last sigh was deaf, the last glance was mute.

Friday, 12 June 2009

Silent conversations from her side of the room

It's 2 am and we are sitting around the same subject, flying over our thoughts as pirates, ravaging each other's words. Conversation is the only pray for the loyal partners. You can keep it in your mouth for much longer than you could even think, and nobody would even dare distract you.

Laura sat at the end of the couch, her right hand holding the penultimate cigarette in her pack, her face clouded by the rising heat from her skin's breath. She looked directly in the eyes, as if she studied any single detail in yours. Her arms are bare, and so is her back on the fresh curtain of the night.

She pours herself another drink, carefully choosing the space between the ice in her glass. She stares at the yellowness breaking into the dark surfaces of the cubes and lets it rest inside them. She needs to swallow more of this moment, but she waits until the brain stops locking up her motions. The real deal is in the fiber of her organs, in the deepness of her soul asking for some more venom to her morning dwellings in solitude.

We listen to them, they seem to be talking but the mouths are so empty. I realise that they could very well be masks trying in vain to shift the muscles through the nerves beyond their pretty features.

Laura seems to be reading my mind. Her smile is genuine and filled of me. I feel her entering my thoughts and I can't disguise myself in any single way. She touches me where no other woman could ever touch me. And yet we are so far away. I look at her legs and they respond to my glance. They absolutely follow my wish and open gently to let me feel the heat that makes her look at my crotch throbbing. She smiles again, and I am alive another night.

She lights the last cigarette with the blazing taste of my lust between her lips. She breathes hard my passion and lets it slip out from her mouth with my full spasm of madness pressing numbness over her face. Her hands are on my back even though she is still in the same sofa, on the same flat, under the same summer night.

The mouths continue to open and close at the same vivid rhythms, but our lullabies are sleeping inside our chests now. Her feet rest on warmer stone, her clothes are laying on her boyfriends lap and my fingers continue to unveil her thick pieces of love. It's her who opens me wide, the razor splits the skin of my desire and enjoys the pleasures of seeing my insides. I cover her body with all my pain, but it is her who holds my depressions, angsts and decay. She moves through all this chaos and makes it braver, faster, meaningfully lustful.

Another drink, 3 am. They all leave, we still dream.

She is there, I am there too. The shadows are leaving the flat, and we still look at each other. Until the next night, under the summer kissing rain.