& you are the ocean

(sin el teclado apropiado)

Porque no se puede escribir todo y el oceano es accidentado.

Una vez mas, a las doce de la noche, salgo a fumar un cigarrillo. Por razones poco comunes, durante la forzada intermision a la pelicula que miraba me vi bajando las escaleras. Al abrir medio portal, saliendo del edificio, le agradezco a dios que me recordara tomar una bufanda y el saco negro. Asi, camino hacia la rampa para minusvalidos que esta' a unos metros de la puerta. Mientras acomodo los guantes de hilo azul pienso nuevamente acerca de la soledad. Por suerte no estoy solo ni me siento asi, aunque cada vez me convenzan mas las evidencias de un presente solitario –porque del futuro ya no quiero saber nada.

Al tiempo que me pongo los guantes tomo la caja de 'Virginia Blend' y saco un pucho. Prendo el pucho, y en algun momento de esta aliteracion una frase resuena en mi cabeza. “Do not trust the truths you have learned in the past, for they were only circumstantial”. A que viene todo esto o de donde vino? Fue lo que me pregunte a mi mismo mediante una de esas sensaciones que no necesitan palabras. Una cara aparece ininteligiblemente esfumada cuando, al desaparecer, pienso 'la que se escapo' (the one that got away). Al pitar del cigarrillo, una revelacion parece haber acelerado el meollo de pensamientos maduros y viciosos en otra dieccion.

Sabiendo que la relacion era caduca no pude ser quien hubiese querido –por segunda vez- y me perdi nuevamente. Esas son las cosas del oceano que no encuentro en los charcos. Un dia al evocarla, pense en como se debe sentir arrojar una piedra en medio del oceano. Esa misma noche me di cuenta donde estaba y que preferia. Hundirme, no estaba en la lista. Quien se jacte de haber recetado la melancolia preventiva es un ser despreciable.

Fui un cobarde por no entregarme y un miserable por no compartir las ausencias que sus ojos derrocharon. Se iba, otra vez. La quise cuando la tuve y la necesito siempre, pero ella no es una idea. Aunque, con esperanza, prefiero decir que saberlo ayuda. La idea de este oceano tan immenso abarca mas que el pensamiento. La idea es capaz de abarcar un mundo en si, uno mas alla de su imagen que termina incluyendonos. Quizas estoy tan a la deriva, lejos de mi, que hasta te encuentre un dia.

Por eso te miro tan seguido. Por eso me busco en tus ojos. No pude tirar la piedra, me tire a mi mismo. Porque a veces eso es lo que hago, me pierdo. Asi estuve por un largo tiempo –perdido. Hoy no se donde estoy porque no te veo hace dias. De mientras, me esfumo en el comfort inutil de una ilusion sincera.

Que cuando se rompan todos los espejos , al buscarte, te encuentres en mis ojos.

Y hace rato que termine el pucho. Lo peor es que no escribi acerca de lo que queria ni de las ideas que tuve, porque que al pensarte se desvanecieron.

yo que se. whispered words of wisdom...que te vaya bien.

forget the begginin this is the end. go back to "inicio"

phenomenalia

the characters are fictitious and existed only during one cigarrette late at night.

They were talking, discussing their problems.
She is going to hug him and he does not know what to do. After a moment of hesitation he leans forward and hugs her, but this time as if it was the first and last time he was going to have her in his arms.
His eyes were red; just red.
“What do we do then?” she asked.
“I do not know, I cannot decide right now” He looked over his shoulder like looking for something; like trying to escape. As a continuation of the same movement, sliding his hands down her arms, he stops hugging her, and looking down he squeezes her hands; she squeezes back. “Sorry, I cannot” he said, still keeping his eyes away from hers.
Vehemently remorseful for having to put him in that situation she exclaims: “we have to decide!”
“Ok!” acknowledging the inevitability of the decision time that was to come. He steps away, opens his jacket and takes out a cigarette. Once again he looks down; this time he lights the cigarette, puffs, and exhales as if the smoke was the condensed steam that comes out of a melting pot of emotions.
He feels selfish, letting her go is not what he wants, but in the other hand he could not neglect the opportunities that were presented in front of him. He thought of taking what was assured; after all he was very young. She was young too and she was there for him, in some way assured as well. What to do if one cannot let go of any of the options?
Despaired to finish this conversation before his impotence to take a decision he said; “I do not want to decide. I cannot decide when both of the options take away such a big part of me; they both hurt. Please, give me some more time.”
“I know, but as it is right now I cannot take it anymore. We have to take responsibility over what we really want. I have already decided to stay here so now it is up to you to decide.” She rushes to say almost about to break into tears.
He puts his hand in his pocket and nervously he moves it like looking for something that will give him the answer. In his face one can still see the disillusion before the situation he finds himself in. While looking at her, not focused on her eyes, he stops moving his hand; he grabs something.
Holding very tight what he has on his pocket he seems ready to answer. “Fine, I’ll go then.” Stepping forward, like wanting to hug her, he starts looking up. It is the onset of the departure, and for the first time in the night, when he turns back to leave the place, their eyes crossed each others on a look that lasted only fractions of a second, but that was worth more than all the words wasted. She understood that the situation put them in conflict and that love does not cure all problems. Her eyes once moist were now in tears.
She got her answer and he left with his hand still in the pocket. “What am I doing? I cannot leave her like this” he says to himself while rushing out of the place.
“Ok…” he says, and stops in a dark corner. Carefully pulls his trembling hand out of the pocket, once out, the hand shows a plastic bag with a suspicious content; he rolls a cigarette. “Fuck it!” he affirms with determination. He puffs a couple of times, then coughs a bit and holds his head.
“What now?” he says complaining to himself while staring into the night’s darkness. His hand rising up again; he puffs.
His eyes were red; just red.

why?

Every night, before Gravity works its magic, around midnight, I go down three floors and open the heavy wooden door facing the Greek Theatre. It's cold! It's warm! I put my hand in my pocket (pair of old jeans, new jacket, or a demode shirt), as I move it around my fingertips make sense of a plastic/metal lighter. My other hand had far before anticipated the craving mind and was already holding its prize, moving it between fingers, flicking it into the unpolluted air, to lastly direct and posit it into my hard tempered lips.