A bus could be heard on its way up the sloppy street that runs meters away from the window he had opened and, confusing the echoes of the wind, the barking dogs gasped for new air as well. There are so many voices getting lost in one sentence that, at times, the writer is not sure if what he says is what he had planned to or the very words he hoped to leave out of the conversation. Like a storm that comes from the south, words seem better uttered when they come freely. Not like the slam of crap that I say, thinks the writer, which is only the result of an idea that has been ricocheting, for who knows how long, and sounds only like the echo of a rustyintention; definitely not like a word.d
Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves. God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his torso from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.
The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood,open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.
The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.
-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.
No can do.
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