Friday, 11 June 2010

Turning blood into stones

The sound of nature woke me up. I must have been sleeping for way much longer than expected. The long sleepless nights were far away and I found myself amidst the smell of green in my nostrils. How could that have happened? I never set my goals to leave for a foreign country, I didn't really buy into the prospect of meeting an exotic land. Somehow the idea of spending the rest of my morning wondering about the circumstances of my current situation seemed out of reach, and in the end I really had no choice.

When I was someone else I really feared everything that was surrounding me at the moment: the silent fauna walking slowly on my side, the closing nature feeding from me, licking me as a dog welcomes the new acquaintances. Laying on the ground I could glimpse the trace of spiders and snakes on my body from the night before. The night creatures had crawled over me and didn't leave any trace of menace but just a sign of bereavement. I was not foreign there, quite surprising thought when you realise that I had never stepped a foot on such a land.

In any case I stood up and studied my surroundings. At first, all I could see was thick branches of future anguishes and their leaves creating some nauseating dizziness in my sight. They polluted my balance, disturbed my self being by deleting any foreseeing future. All my life my focus was on dreaming on and continuing discovering new worlds and new faces and yet this new situation was starting to dwell on me and driving me into some sick whirlwind of self absorption. I asked loudly to be let free from this idea and the dream just fell on my knees.

It was dark at last, and the trees and the wild plants around my bed had finally freed me from my slumber. I felt my hands burn and my heart stop when I scanned the old stone stairs buried under the grass that was my bed. I followed them quite quickly considering my lack of physical motion in the previous days. Everything was invaded by the grasp of green nature, the savage growth of the present covering the ruins of our past.

At the end there stood a door without the support of any wall. I somehow thought of me as the door, and the emptiness as the symbol of my loneliness. I let myself grow slowly through the space through the door to walk inside another parts of me. There was no light amongst those ruins, no noise or no wind spacing the stones within those silent witnesses of my distant past. It was all stone, motionless and hopeless signs.

I found myself whispering to those ruins, kissing the cold stench of decay and slowly recovering all of the dreams that had been mine. The youth, the love, the was all back into me. My body stood still, silent, in peace. In the middle of all that ever growing rhythmic growth of life among the jungle, there was a hidden passage in which I had found my way back into the meaning of my own self. I had fixed my senses into what it was not evident and made my life back into the dreams of a nearing past that had completely covered me into the mesmerizing tides of eternal life through my physical death in this present world.

One day my ghost will wake up again and leave the cracks of my solid wounds, inducting a kiss of breath into my carcass heart. Until then, I will dive in my dream, sleep until the bleed soars and time becomes a legend too. Just as me.

Tuesday, 1 June 2010


Entras por la puerta y ves que ya no estoy. Te preguntas por qué tardé tanto tiempo en mudarme de piso e intentas olvidar que alguna vez estuve allí.

Más tarde vas al trabajo en tu coche y descubres mi foto en la guantera. Durante algunos minutos la miras fijamente e intentas escudriñarla para decorar con algo de lógica la memoria que de cualquier otro modo es enfermiza.

Por supuesto conviertes los plieges rectos y equilibrados de mi identidad en un amasijo de papel colorante en el interior de tu puño. Luego me tiras a la carretera para que me pierda bajo las ruedas de los otros.

En el trabajo, te preguntan por mí y tú ya sabes qué responder. Mi memoria ya está rota así que no te importa arrojar más agua por la superficie de la foto para borrar los elementos que me componían.

Y finalmente llegas a casa, y mi olor está por todas partes. Tratas de quemarme a través del fuego sobre mi ropa, pero las cenizas nunca se desvanecerán y su polvo se fundirá con el aire que respiras.

Abres la ventana para que yo me esfume, y te acuestas en la cama donde nos dejamos de conocer. Cierras los ojos y suspiras el resto del aire que queda de mí.

Años después descubres otra foto, otro olor, otro sabor y en vano intentas recomponer la imagen que se desvaneció de mí. Me imaginas más bello, menos real y mi retrato es mucho mejor que el original. Abres el cofre de tu corazón y en él conservas el sueño de alguien que yo pude ser y nunca llegué a ser.

Por último los días pasan y en su agitado caminar el corazón se abre, se limpia y se llena de aire nuevo. Por fín, yo ya he muerto