The dark path I ran away from, years ago, has apparently been following me; like a black snake. A black two-headed vermin with no eyes and with no more occupation than stalking me.
It is now weaving at me, with its long meager hand, a palm that wants to cover me completely, remove me from sight as if I was dust on a screen.
I go out and notice that the blinking eyes of strangers reminded me of handclaps. Everyone hard sounding, like little bricks crashing into each other. All of them watching the world crumble while making deafening sounds. They believe the dark path is also away from them? Maybe they have never seen it. Are their lives so simple.? So bored and predictable than their mere existence found satisfaction in forgetting, episode after episode, that they are dying? -Am I living? -they asked every minute. No, you are not living, you are dying but you don't realize it yet.
While I am getting submerged in my grievance, I can picture myself in front of a bush made of small white flowers whose brightness has been dimmed by the dust. It is summer, 6:00 PM, somewhere close to the Pacific. The light is barely seen, there is only a hard red shine over the city. The concrete walls look ominous, while I am giving small jumps trying to smash the autumn leaves on the sidewalk.
The cats, the dogs, and the birds have left the city. There are no more animals to pet, to admire.
The cats, the dogs, and the birds have left the city. There are no more animals to pet, to admire.
I can see many sick women in the street. They are licking their arms and hands, tasting the flavor over their bodies. There is one however who doesn't do it. This woman knows the truth, but at the same time rejects it. She is doubtful, but she still prays for revelation.
Eduardo Guillen.
Eduardo Guillen.
