He wasn’t quite sure, the book could desintegrate in his hands if he opened it. Without touching it, he blew on the cover; dust raised and lighted while passing through the window. Magic dust, he thought, and laughed.
Writing as vomiting. Not as vomiting, as pulling a handkerchief out of the mouth. Passing the words from one place to the other. My imagination as a door.
Sometimes they push to open it and get through. Sometimes I stand looking inward, checking the clock until I see them kicking up dust in the distance.
You I did see: plaid pants, black hat, black long coat. The staircase was narrow, steep and made of cement. Covered with dirt. Why I liked the ladder (that way, dirty and sad): because I knew of your other lives, I knew one in which you were not poor, in which you could have taken me to a better place. Unfortunately for me, in that other life you didn’t know me.
The urge of being together led us up to the door (small). The stairs and the door predicted a miserable room.
And how to access that other place, those other places where you are, or not. Being here and there is quite a mystery. Quite a gift is not to be for a while, for resting, for being not apart.
For now, I have that scene and these words (a bridge, the words). And the ladder.
At that moment he can see himself through the eyes of that other person, and can feel how she doesn’t know him (himself) and the pleasure of being her, because she is totally in peace with herself. The world of the woman, though sharing geographic place and historical time with him, is diametrically opposed to his.
Slave, consumerist, small-time. He knows money won’t buy hapiness but pursues economic success thinking it will provide him with that well-being sensation he yearns for.
He makes a good living, but his work consumes so many hours of his day that a huge portion of his earnings he spends in self gratification, in an attempt to compensate for the lack of time for himself.
Now and then, he surprises himself arguing with his co-workers, chiefs (yes, many) and even passersby. He believes is the others that, in one way or another, drive him to unhappiness.
The passage from not seeing you to seeing you was intimidating. Was it you? As long as I occupy this place, only for moments I’ll be able to answer that question. The girl talked too much. You answered her in a disdainful manner, as if you were fed up with her.
It was you. You, behind that face, at that moment; but you didn’t recognize me. I got off the subway before my stop, with fright for having found and lost you.
Thoughts walking on the inner side, entering through the ears or the nose… who knows through where. They scare like bugs.
could, finally, stop. I’m exhausted, at least despair attenuated.
This morning I woke up asleep, coffee couldn’t wake me, neither did the fresh air outside when I left. I worked sleeping, got home, rested, had dinner and went to bed to dream I didn’t know I slept.
I look for pain in every trail. For the pinch that’ll wake me. Something tells me it’s not true nothing happens. I sip my coffee and a bird sings.
(A murmur in my throat surprises me. Words run over themselves and die squashed.)