Sitting in the café with the pose of who is anything but you, I stick my finger in my nose and scarafuncho until I find a piece of soft brain that can remove without affecting what eventually consoles me.
The mind is a frontier, one of those at risk, which does not leave us on this side and transports us to the paradise of wisdom, to the vanguard of literati, to sewage and rats. Anyway, in the mind everywhere goes away.
And the journey is not smooth. Shipwrecks, resingadas, deep holes in the tires. From the ends of the universe to my neighborhood, I go on a jump, abstract on a napkin and still question God. I feel great about such little duty. The kind of thinking. To fight. From, on the edge, when fed up, to give up writing, perhaps because it’s the portal I don’t know about.
You prefer death to life. Where to go, I think restlessly, how to do it, how to survive the absence of a future? Everything annoys me and I don’t care. I’m in a hurry and I want peace, I’m brave and I’m afraid.
T’esconjuro weather report, relative of nonsense, of the folly of the domino. I cook, therefore, and in the way, taught by my aunts to whom I called incessantly, when the doubt of the stew raised the fire and the pot trembled. An onion browned, a tomato spread the acid odors of a house so enunciated as sadness. A fish, which was fished, raises submissive splinters. I’ll wait by the stove.
I see myself banto, Jew, Taoist, Agareno and Christian. And I know the warlike sense of these words. And it was through ploughed land that I left my country. I’ve never excised the root that’s hard to excise
As Attila awaits my opportunity. I anticipate, cynical, the successive collapse of empires. I frown and clap my hands. It’s just that the same thing is coming, even if it’s different. “Same same but different”, growls somewhere the Thai and in this sentence combines an unparalleled vidence. I’m not the sea, I’m not heaven or the land i used to be firm. I’m the of a comet that one night will pass, slide, understand, love, seek in absurd demand, until one day die.
Until one day it was extinguished from the heavens of others, the sky of the lame lumpen, obedient, growling interdent imprecations, shaped by the hour. But quiet: there is nothing to change. The world changes clothes seasonally and lies as believers do when they preach to us accurately. You won’t even be alone in the coffin.
He goes to the saints and rehearses the solidó, which is the possible limit, the farce of another life, but in the rush. Fanatic of sardines and yellowish manjericos as teeth. It’s tobacco, they insinuate. It is from the portrait, seamlessly, taken on my street, in the intimacy of being naked as turkey, overwhelmed with wine, immersed in the evils of an incomplete cigarette.
The typhoon blows outside, but it’s just another wind after all. One more wind and another wind. That’s right, it’s a mess. Green and black bruises on cold skin. Yes, I’m cold, even if I make a point of burning, until wick exists. The candle flame doesn’t heat up. The wax only intosses the wretched who prays. It’s time that doesn’t pass, it doesn’t even crack.
The meshes that the empire weaving are there conjuring. They know the reason, the most false of arguments. I see myself banto, Jew, Taoist, Agareno and Christian. And I know the warlike sense of these words. And it was through ploughed land that I left my country. I’ve never excised the root that’s hard to excise. You go to the sweet field today, tie the ox to the plow and furrow the earth as if it were the sky you plough. There’s no room down here.
*Journalist and writer