It’s me

She hardly moved its tiny leg. She had made herself comfortable inside my hair to be in accordance (or warmer). But it didn’t bother me, moreover, I liked it a little for I had forgotten she was a cockroach and I had more remembered she came from me, from my hair, from my will of creating her. She came from my life because she was in it, and she was a part of me because of that. It was me the cockroach… IT WAS ME THE COCKROACH.

I wake up all sweaty. (It was me the cockroach.) At the bathroom mirror I am not able to distinguish her, so blended with my other hairs. Underneath my pillow there is one of my hairs but that isn’t a forceful proof. (It was me the cockroach.) I make myself a coffee and still feel the dream all over my body. (It was me the cockroach.)

In The Street

Nobody knew what was going on. She just looked up, then down, and started dancing. Feet, feet, head. Feet, feet, head. Opened up arms to the sky. Closed arms down to the earth. Over and over again, for two hours.

She didn’t know either. An impulse drove her to move like that. An impulse which she decided not to hold back: that was her only merit. That dance came from within. It came from before. From when time was time and not … this.

Complexity

“Don’t you let him go.” She seemed stupid or crazy as she passed me by on the street; only when she turned her head to talk to me her expression changed: someone was using her to deliver me a message. This was a dream, and God only knows you weren’t with me there either.

I was thinking of leaving you then. She knew.

I’m “awake” now but still cannot figure anything out. I don’t understand how this works, but while asking heaven for help, the voices, addressing me, said: “Remember, you’re always right at some level of the game, the trick is that you decide in which of them you want to stay.”