(el poema que no encajaba en el poemario, ni tuyo ni mío)
when my arms freeze
and glue to my torso
you've got an idea what this
is all about
in a place of intentional bad light
I can only fake my eyes' movement
and pretend
that I don't know about
the memories
and
the time that your saliva was once on my face
just by my lips
my fingers just by yours
the time I was frozen falsely
there are chances somewhere else, someone else.
vendredi 3 octobre 2008
jeudi 25 septembre 2008
Birthday (esto va al principio pero no inmediatamente después del principio)
- AROUND MY THROAT AND AND...
- I think you should speak more
-hmm?
-I think you should talk more often, you should speak more
-Maybe I should
-You don't say enough...
-... there is something eeriely tranquilising in the up-side down Hanged Man, he floats while he's dancing, he's not hanged anymore
__________.______________.___________
"Happy Birthday," he said and handed a wrapped thin rectangle-shaped item to Andrew who smiled guessing already the content although it did not count really as guessing when achieved due to repetition.
-"Several Perceptions"
- Yeah, I thought you might like it
-Sometime I wish I had a book in my library without you name writen in the first page
-Books in Norway are in Norwegian
-They don't have books in English in Norway?
-They do, but I bought that one for me first
-Is it good?
-Yes, someone sets a ferret free from the zoo at some point
-Oh..... is that why you bought it?
-Mostly
-Sounds good, I'll read it. This is awkard.
- More people coming?
-Yes
-Even more awkard to me then.
-Laurent and Lou are coming.
-We'll drink until we forget that I wasn't here for time enough to create unconfortable silences
-I like them
-Maybe they are not
-What?
-Nothing
-...
-...
-...
-...
He was sure about Tristram's thoughts. He looked at him, he thought he could pierce through Tristram's wall of immutability. He studied all the calculated gestures, every glance controlled, Tristram and his subconcious kinetic appriopiateness, his re-readings of On the Road every time he was in a long train journey and The Waves read three times since he was fifteen when he would re-read when he turned in a multiple of 5. He was the same, Tristram was obviously feeling the unsettling sensation of his return numbness. He was afraid, the attempts of smiling deceive him thought Andrew. After studying him quietly he was ready to predict. He will rub his knees with his palms, he will stop when Andrew looks at his movement, the he will sip his cup of tea as not to talk, he will not sip, he will fake it, he will not want the tea to be finished, he will need to sip their silence dry. He will now ask something trivial. No. He will now bring a memory so they can laugh and forget the abyss Tristram created by imagining its existence
-Remember when you fell in
-The lagoon?
-Yes.
-...
-...
Now, he will say too happily, "That's the door, someone's knocking door" and smile honestly. Tristram, he created the unconfortable feeling thougth Andrew.
mardi 16 septembre 2008
Al Aeropuerto
-“Lo voy a solucionar,” le dijo a su hijo. Sabía que su padre no lo iba a hacer principalmente porque no podía, no había forma de solucionarlo. Le creyó de todas formas, siempre confiaba en él sin importar qué y es que parecía tan lógico todo, podía entender lo que estaba diciendo completamente. Sabía que su padre no podía arreglarlo pero no podía no sentirse aliviado después de escuchar su afirmación.
Quería apoyar la cabeza en la ventana y sacarse el cinturón de seguridad pero no lo hizo, estaba seguro que él lo iba a encontrar extraño y le preguntaría por qué estaba apoyando la cabeza en la ventana y la respuesta “porque tengo ganas” no sería satisfactoria. Aunque realmente nunca necesitaban hablar sintió la necesidad de empezar una conversación trivial ¿Quizás sobre el clima como dicen que hacen los ingleses? Afuera estaba nevando.
- “¿Son los Rolling Stones?”
- “Hmm, no sé, parece”
- “¿No era esta canción la de ese programa de la guerra de Vietnam? ¿Cómo se llamaba?”
- “Ah! Sí, ‘Misión del Deber’ aunque
Debería haberse llamado…
debería haberse llamado ‘El Llamado del Deber,’ ‘Call of Duty’”
No sabía mucho sobre los 60’s y 70’s como le hubiese gustado que él supiera, pensó que de cierta forma a él le habían robado su adolescencia, que no había vivido en ese tiempo realmente.
Habían razones para confiar en él, todas esas historias del “Antartic Dog” cuando se iba por tres meses y arreglaba tractores de nieve, desaprobaba como los otros atornillaban piezas de metal en un ala de algún avión ruso y mandaba a todo el mundo a la mierda con ingenio, eficiencia y rudeza, Dorian Gray, MacGyver y ¿Clyde? El no era tan rudo.
- “A veces no nos parecemos”
- “¿Qué?”
- “Nada, que, a veces no nos parecemos tanto”
- Ah, no
- ¿Cuando no estamos juntos quizás?
- Puede que no…
- …
- Ya hablé con la gente que tenía que hablar y con el abogado y está todo bien…
- ..bien encaminado… que bueno, que bueno que se estén solucionando las cosas.
Miró por la ventana de nuevo, quería hablar con él, ya habían hablado de la radio y de ese capítulo de “Conquest” donde mostraban como las herramientas de cultivo de los campesinos medievales eran armas efectivas contra un caballero. Abrió la ventana y dejó que entrara el frío y un poco de nieve, quizás sacar la cara, sólo se asomó, y no lloró.
Quería apoyar la cabeza en la ventana y sacarse el cinturón de seguridad pero no lo hizo, estaba seguro que él lo iba a encontrar extraño y le preguntaría por qué estaba apoyando la cabeza en la ventana y la respuesta “porque tengo ganas” no sería satisfactoria. Aunque realmente nunca necesitaban hablar sintió la necesidad de empezar una conversación trivial ¿Quizás sobre el clima como dicen que hacen los ingleses? Afuera estaba nevando.
- “¿Son los Rolling Stones?”
- “Hmm, no sé, parece”
- “¿No era esta canción la de ese programa de la guerra de Vietnam? ¿Cómo se llamaba?”
- “Ah! Sí, ‘Misión del Deber’ aunque
Debería haberse llamado…
debería haberse llamado ‘El Llamado del Deber,’ ‘Call of Duty’”
No sabía mucho sobre los 60’s y 70’s como le hubiese gustado que él supiera, pensó que de cierta forma a él le habían robado su adolescencia, que no había vivido en ese tiempo realmente.
Habían razones para confiar en él, todas esas historias del “Antartic Dog” cuando se iba por tres meses y arreglaba tractores de nieve, desaprobaba como los otros atornillaban piezas de metal en un ala de algún avión ruso y mandaba a todo el mundo a la mierda con ingenio, eficiencia y rudeza, Dorian Gray, MacGyver y ¿Clyde? El no era tan rudo.
- “A veces no nos parecemos”
- “¿Qué?”
- “Nada, que, a veces no nos parecemos tanto”
- Ah, no
- ¿Cuando no estamos juntos quizás?
- Puede que no…
- …
- Ya hablé con la gente que tenía que hablar y con el abogado y está todo bien…
- ..bien encaminado… que bueno, que bueno que se estén solucionando las cosas.
Miró por la ventana de nuevo, quería hablar con él, ya habían hablado de la radio y de ese capítulo de “Conquest” donde mostraban como las herramientas de cultivo de los campesinos medievales eran armas efectivas contra un caballero. Abrió la ventana y dejó que entrara el frío y un poco de nieve, quizás sacar la cara, sólo se asomó, y no lloró.
mardi 17 juin 2008
(Attempt)
(Este creo que sera el comienzo del cuento que llevo tratando de escribir desde el anio pasado y ya no sera 50/50 ficcion realidad, creo que se pondra mas y mas ficticio, escribo en ingles as a defamiliarisation process, necesito flitros y me siento comodo usando el traducir del ingles al espanol como filtro)
His first suicidal thought came after an idea hit him like a rotating red brick on his forehead making his neck bend backwards. With his fists tightly clutched in his brown worn out coat while looking at the snow spotted hills he listened to the announcement in Norwegian that possibly said something like "the train from Bodø will arrive in a few minutes to take you the hell out from Fauske," and right there he realised that not once he had stopped to think about anything. The Train from Bodø was coming and he had nothing but maps, diagrams, future conversation outlines and floating faces in his head. On that bench on that train station in the middle of nowhere he would end up his life and he would remain there as a memorial of 2007, the year when a young amateur backpacker realised there was nothing to think about. It would be constantly shit on by pigeons, vandalised by bored youths and people would take pictures by it with innocent vulgar visual innuendos.
He Looked around, the hills still had some snow and the wind kept constantly blowing making his sunburnt face ache.
"I'm so self-indulgent that I make myself sick" he thought.
He finally got on the train. He felt relief, not only because we would be warm for the next 17 hours on the train to Oslo. In a way he was happy he was going back home, he really tried to block this feeling, for ages he had tried to leave Scotland. He remembered his longs conversations with Andrew where he would listen to him patiently, it was alway the same, andrew thought ardently that Aberdeen was a trap, that its soil was knitting slowly and labouriously their feet to the ground. Andrew was too full of conviction and he moved his hands way to frantically, Tristram did not want to agree with him, not publicly, not aloud, not too comitted. He wanted to stoic and work his way out of Scotland quietly, he would nod at Andrew's statements and enquire "And then? What happens after you leave Scotland?" Andrew would sip his wine first maybe as to have more time to answer and would finally reply "Then I start living." The desperate cliche for an answer, Oh! there was going all credibility sinking in a pond of childish rebelious attitudes.
Tristram wouldn't say anything, Andrew had humiliated himself enough, or maybe he didn't, he wouldn't let Tristram's sourness to mess up with what he wanted, moreover, Andrew knew they both shared this longing.
For three months he had been rambling in Scandinavia. One day he noticed he had enough money to leave somewhere and he chose the remoteness that was closer and he fled to cease his longing. When he arrived in Helsinki he decided he wouln't have a future plan until one popped up. He considered joining a Sami community, becoming a bartender in Stockholm or trying to find his way on the small ancient Cod fishing business in any of the islands in Lofoten. He wasn't truly convinced by any and he was running out of money.
On the train while crossing the snowy semi flooded moors where he thought the Arctic Circle was he felt that a sensation of self-sabotage was hauting him, he stared bluntly at the shoes of the man across, something in his shoes suggested fjords. He eagerly wanted to stop thinking that he was unvoluntarily sabotaging his plans of leaving Scotland. He thought of what he had managed to do. He thought of the strings he cut to free himself from Aberdeen. He quit his job, blatantly ignored his family wishes and he willingly got to not to miss his friends. Now, the next 50 hours were carefully scheduled like cut patterns on heart surgery.
In 17 hours he would be in Oslo in the early morning, in the afternoon he would fly to Glasgow, spend the night there and take a morning train to Aberdeen.
There were duties waiting for him in Aberdeen, Lucien's existence seemed to be getting more and more vague and Andrew seemed to be going mad. He thought that if he really tried he might make a difference in his friends' life for the very first time. For now, he was just crossing rocky hills crammed with pines.
"There is nothing wrong with a purposeless life," Lucien thought "for we live as if travelling on thunder, and that's a bless, and there is no time for stopping to finnish things since that would get us off the speed of life
His first suicidal thought came after an idea hit him like a rotating red brick on his forehead making his neck bend backwards. With his fists tightly clutched in his brown worn out coat while looking at the snow spotted hills he listened to the announcement in Norwegian that possibly said something like "the train from Bodø will arrive in a few minutes to take you the hell out from Fauske," and right there he realised that not once he had stopped to think about anything. The Train from Bodø was coming and he had nothing but maps, diagrams, future conversation outlines and floating faces in his head. On that bench on that train station in the middle of nowhere he would end up his life and he would remain there as a memorial of 2007, the year when a young amateur backpacker realised there was nothing to think about. It would be constantly shit on by pigeons, vandalised by bored youths and people would take pictures by it with innocent vulgar visual innuendos.
He Looked around, the hills still had some snow and the wind kept constantly blowing making his sunburnt face ache.
"I'm so self-indulgent that I make myself sick" he thought.
He finally got on the train. He felt relief, not only because we would be warm for the next 17 hours on the train to Oslo. In a way he was happy he was going back home, he really tried to block this feeling, for ages he had tried to leave Scotland. He remembered his longs conversations with Andrew where he would listen to him patiently, it was alway the same, andrew thought ardently that Aberdeen was a trap, that its soil was knitting slowly and labouriously their feet to the ground. Andrew was too full of conviction and he moved his hands way to frantically, Tristram did not want to agree with him, not publicly, not aloud, not too comitted. He wanted to stoic and work his way out of Scotland quietly, he would nod at Andrew's statements and enquire "And then? What happens after you leave Scotland?" Andrew would sip his wine first maybe as to have more time to answer and would finally reply "Then I start living." The desperate cliche for an answer, Oh! there was going all credibility sinking in a pond of childish rebelious attitudes.
Tristram wouldn't say anything, Andrew had humiliated himself enough, or maybe he didn't, he wouldn't let Tristram's sourness to mess up with what he wanted, moreover, Andrew knew they both shared this longing.
For three months he had been rambling in Scandinavia. One day he noticed he had enough money to leave somewhere and he chose the remoteness that was closer and he fled to cease his longing. When he arrived in Helsinki he decided he wouln't have a future plan until one popped up. He considered joining a Sami community, becoming a bartender in Stockholm or trying to find his way on the small ancient Cod fishing business in any of the islands in Lofoten. He wasn't truly convinced by any and he was running out of money.
On the train while crossing the snowy semi flooded moors where he thought the Arctic Circle was he felt that a sensation of self-sabotage was hauting him, he stared bluntly at the shoes of the man across, something in his shoes suggested fjords. He eagerly wanted to stop thinking that he was unvoluntarily sabotaging his plans of leaving Scotland. He thought of what he had managed to do. He thought of the strings he cut to free himself from Aberdeen. He quit his job, blatantly ignored his family wishes and he willingly got to not to miss his friends. Now, the next 50 hours were carefully scheduled like cut patterns on heart surgery.
In 17 hours he would be in Oslo in the early morning, in the afternoon he would fly to Glasgow, spend the night there and take a morning train to Aberdeen.
There were duties waiting for him in Aberdeen, Lucien's existence seemed to be getting more and more vague and Andrew seemed to be going mad. He thought that if he really tried he might make a difference in his friends' life for the very first time. For now, he was just crossing rocky hills crammed with pines.
"There is nothing wrong with a purposeless life," Lucien thought "for we live as if travelling on thunder, and that's a bless, and there is no time for stopping to finnish things since that would get us off the speed of life
jeudi 22 mai 2008
Ruidos
¿Seran ellos nuevamente? Puede ser (como había pasado un par de veces antes) que no, que el sonido viniera de una paloma o un ratón activando una de las trampas, que un pedazo del techo se hubiera caído o que fuera parte de una pesadilla. Pero lo más probable era que fueran ellos.
En silencio se levantó del suelo y se preguntó si era de noche. Había elegido dormir en esta pieza, porque no tenía ventanas, porque esto es en muchas situaciones una ventaja.
Sobandose brazos y piernas en silencio, trató de captar algún sonido que viniera de algún lugar. Si estaban abajo, pronto encontrarían una trampa y el tendría tiempo de escapar. Si estaban en el mismo piso tendría que improvisar.
"Paloma", pensó. Se dio cuenta que tenía los ojos muy abiertos, que hace unos minnutos, quizas, no pestañeaba. "Cuando no hay luz abrimos los ojos para escuchar mejor" pensó. Lo había leido en su adolescencia y se le quedó grabado siempre. O quizas no. Quizas lo había inventado hace poco. Le pasaba a veces que se daba cuenta que pequeñas cosas de su vida, las transformaba en programas de televisión, películas o libros, o radionovelas; y luego se daba cuenta. ¿Debía preocuparse? ¿Que mal hacía? ¿Había algún-
TAK
Un grito de dolor horrible. Corrió a oscuras por el pasillo, siguiendo la derecha, y al doblar por la ezquina recordó sacarse los calcetines y ponerselos en el pantalón. Cruzó a la pared contraria y gateando lentamente avanzó.
Detrás de el, una luz, delante, trampas, una caida de 4 o 5 metros y quizas uno de ellos abajo. Por la ventana ya quebrada se colaba algo de luz artificial.
"Noche"
Al llegar a una de las ventanas, aún gateando, sacó uno de los calcetines y lo llenó con pedazos de cemento que perteneció a las paredes o al techo, o a una de las personas que rompió el vidrio del edificio. Amarró la "pierna" del calcetín y miró hacia afuera. La luz de la linterna estaba ya en la penultima pared, tendría uno o dos minutos para saltar. Pero tenía que esperar. Abajo otro de ellos dobló la ezquina del edificio.
Le dio dos vueltas al calcetin por encima de su cabeza y lo lanzó por la ventana. Tres pisos y dos segundos más abajo un hombre con la cabeza sangrando. Había leido alguna vez "a half brick in a sock better than..." ¿swords? ¿arrows? Cuando los usas deja de ser gracioso, después de todo incluso si te acuerdas. Salto, vuelta, sacar zapatos y calcetines, echar en el morral.
Correr.
En silencio se levantó del suelo y se preguntó si era de noche. Había elegido dormir en esta pieza, porque no tenía ventanas, porque esto es en muchas situaciones una ventaja.
Sobandose brazos y piernas en silencio, trató de captar algún sonido que viniera de algún lugar. Si estaban abajo, pronto encontrarían una trampa y el tendría tiempo de escapar. Si estaban en el mismo piso tendría que improvisar.
"Paloma", pensó. Se dio cuenta que tenía los ojos muy abiertos, que hace unos minnutos, quizas, no pestañeaba. "Cuando no hay luz abrimos los ojos para escuchar mejor" pensó. Lo había leido en su adolescencia y se le quedó grabado siempre. O quizas no. Quizas lo había inventado hace poco. Le pasaba a veces que se daba cuenta que pequeñas cosas de su vida, las transformaba en programas de televisión, películas o libros, o radionovelas; y luego se daba cuenta. ¿Debía preocuparse? ¿Que mal hacía? ¿Había algún-
TAK
Un grito de dolor horrible. Corrió a oscuras por el pasillo, siguiendo la derecha, y al doblar por la ezquina recordó sacarse los calcetines y ponerselos en el pantalón. Cruzó a la pared contraria y gateando lentamente avanzó.
Detrás de el, una luz, delante, trampas, una caida de 4 o 5 metros y quizas uno de ellos abajo. Por la ventana ya quebrada se colaba algo de luz artificial.
"Noche"
Al llegar a una de las ventanas, aún gateando, sacó uno de los calcetines y lo llenó con pedazos de cemento que perteneció a las paredes o al techo, o a una de las personas que rompió el vidrio del edificio. Amarró la "pierna" del calcetín y miró hacia afuera. La luz de la linterna estaba ya en la penultima pared, tendría uno o dos minutos para saltar. Pero tenía que esperar. Abajo otro de ellos dobló la ezquina del edificio.
Le dio dos vueltas al calcetin por encima de su cabeza y lo lanzó por la ventana. Tres pisos y dos segundos más abajo un hombre con la cabeza sangrando. Había leido alguna vez "a half brick in a sock better than..." ¿swords? ¿arrows? Cuando los usas deja de ser gracioso, después de todo incluso si te acuerdas. Salto, vuelta, sacar zapatos y calcetines, echar en el morral.
Correr.
samedi 5 avril 2008
To the Park
He had rediscovered that song for the third or seventh time. He could feel the sun heating his scalp under his messy recently washed hair and he noticed that the lyrics where perfect, or at least moderately accurate. He looked south and saw a thick dark clouds, he didn't know if those had already passed or were coming now, it had rained in the morning but he wasn't used to the cloud movement of that city even though he had been living there for a long while.
He got in the bus, went upstairs and tried to understand things. He felt utterly happy, he had never tried to run away from his house or hometown but to be this far felt right. He still wanted to go back but right now to live in this big dirty city and not near the mountains of the West fitted perfectly. This was not the moment for silence and fresh air neither for hot afternoons sitting on the porch and pointless walks by the mysteriously yellow sanded shore of the lake, at his 26 years old he was meant to take a bus to the park if he wanted to be in a moor or near some woods. Something had been creeping in him slowly halfheartedly for years and in that afternoon it stopped without any apparent reason, in that moment he thought that there was never a point in being upset and unhappy, that all those mornings he stood in bed without moving did not make any sense but that thing would find its way through his breath or rather through his pores.
The daylight was particularly yellow when he got off the bus and the clouds where equally confusing for him. He followed the path and he realised that one could get a really nice view of the churchtower of Trinity Church from there. While he walked there he thought to whom he should show his discovery, he should go back in the same path as to study what is the best spot to reveal this finding, he didn't know many people, after a while he abandoned this fancy. He looked for a nice place to sit in the heather, it was not easy for there were many children and dogs running around, he didn't want to disturb their paths, it felt incorrect and he was scared of them both. He sat down and took a chocolate filled croissant from his backpack, he gave it a bite and felt slightly disappointed of the metallic alcoholic taste of the filling and the proceeded to read his physics books.
He felt a little bit stupid when he was struggling with the fact that nothing with mass could move at the speed of light because of the way acceleration work in the Theory of Relativity, it should be easier, it shouldn't be a matter of numeric speculation, he always had problems in believing blindly in something. The light wasn't yellow anymore and he could suddenly feel a minute breeze crawling from his shoes into his left foot and upwards. He felt the necessity of exercising his knuckles more often as to make his fingers warmed up by hiding them in his palms for few seconds. Suddenly a drop in his book was absorbed by the page he was reading making the word elsewhere look awkward. He looked up, after all this were new clouds coming again, or were the same that in the morning? was that possible? Physics should say no, by meteorology was rebellious and the truth is that he did not really know. He packed his things carelessly and left. On the bus home he noticed he had forgotten to look for the best spot to look at the churchtower protruding from the middle of the path of oaks and holly.
dimanche 30 mars 2008
Sombras (parte 2)
- ¿Y como te has sentido? - preguntó Gabriela una vez que se habían sentado en las sillas de la ventana que daba a la calle en la heladería.
-Bien, con mucho más ánimo ya- Dice fran con una sonrisa.
-¿Duermes bien?
-¿Lo dices por las ojeras?
-No, no...
- Ayer me desvelé un poco, pero en general duermo bien...
-¿Muchas pastillas?
-No, no muchas en realidad. Cada vez menos, y nunca para dormir. Me cagan los sueños ¿sabías?
-No, no sabía- Dice Gabriela con alivio.
-Si. Ayer soñé que estaba en un cementerio flotante--¿has visto ese video de gorillaz donde la niña va en una isla que tiene un molino?
-Si, es bueno.
-Era como esa isla, sin molino y con un cementerio. Una reja negra grande...
-Tu idea me recuerda el cementerio de venecia...
-pero yo no la podía abrir. No se por que no podía; de hecho ni siquiera lo intentaba, porque no podía.
-Asi es como funciona todo.
-¿Como?
-Si crees que no puedes, no lo vas a lograr.
-Claro, pero eso no funciona al reves; no hay viceversa para lo que dices.
-¡Por supuesto que si! Si de verdad crees que vas a hacer algo, lo haces. Todos los entrenamientos son una reafirmación para la voluntad de algo que podías hacer desde el principio- Dice Gabriela con una sonrisa que le cubre la mitad de la cara.
fran y Gabriela rien, fran mucho más rato.
-¡fran!-Dice Gabriela con verguenza o preocupación-¡Para fran!
-Perdón...es que hace tiempo que no me reía. Además no podía parar de pensar que si-
fran vuelve a reirse, pero poco esta vez.
-que si alguien de mi familia te escuchara diciendome esas cosas te retarían mucho. "¿Como se le ocurre meterle esas ideas en la cabeza? ¿no se da cuenta que es enfermito?"
-No eres enfermito.-Dice Gabriela seriamente.
-¡Ay, no te pongas tan grave! Además es un poco como piensan en mi familia. Siempre cuidandose de que no vaya a volverme loco de nuevo.
-fran...
-Hey, eso tenemos que aceptarlo todos; estuve loco. Porque si no lo aceptamos, entonces tenía razón, las cosas son mucho más terribles de lo que creemos y yo me pasé un tiempo horrible en el manicomio y drogado por pastillas cuando salí del manicomio solo porque no entendieron mi punto de vista...
-¡fran!
-¿Muy pronto para hablar de esto?
-No es eso-dice Gabriela con cara de frustración- es que...
-No me tienes que dar explicaciones. Es incomodo para todos, creo. Pero tampoco te puedes tomar las cosas tan en serio. Si yo no me rio...-dice fran con voz muy grave- ¡Ah! Acabo de encontrar un punto debil en tu teoría de "creer es poder". Según tu, si yo creía todo eso, entonces eso era verdad. Pero no era.
-Es que ese es el punto, fran. Yo creo que de cierta forma si lo era.
-Bien, con mucho más ánimo ya- Dice fran con una sonrisa.
-¿Duermes bien?
-¿Lo dices por las ojeras?
-No, no...
- Ayer me desvelé un poco, pero en general duermo bien...
-¿Muchas pastillas?
-No, no muchas en realidad. Cada vez menos, y nunca para dormir. Me cagan los sueños ¿sabías?
-No, no sabía- Dice Gabriela con alivio.
-Si. Ayer soñé que estaba en un cementerio flotante--¿has visto ese video de gorillaz donde la niña va en una isla que tiene un molino?
-Si, es bueno.
-Era como esa isla, sin molino y con un cementerio. Una reja negra grande...
-Tu idea me recuerda el cementerio de venecia...
-pero yo no la podía abrir. No se por que no podía; de hecho ni siquiera lo intentaba, porque no podía.
-Asi es como funciona todo.
-¿Como?
-Si crees que no puedes, no lo vas a lograr.
-Claro, pero eso no funciona al reves; no hay viceversa para lo que dices.
-¡Por supuesto que si! Si de verdad crees que vas a hacer algo, lo haces. Todos los entrenamientos son una reafirmación para la voluntad de algo que podías hacer desde el principio- Dice Gabriela con una sonrisa que le cubre la mitad de la cara.
fran y Gabriela rien, fran mucho más rato.
-¡fran!-Dice Gabriela con verguenza o preocupación-¡Para fran!
-Perdón...es que hace tiempo que no me reía. Además no podía parar de pensar que si-
fran vuelve a reirse, pero poco esta vez.
-que si alguien de mi familia te escuchara diciendome esas cosas te retarían mucho. "¿Como se le ocurre meterle esas ideas en la cabeza? ¿no se da cuenta que es enfermito?"
-No eres enfermito.-Dice Gabriela seriamente.
-¡Ay, no te pongas tan grave! Además es un poco como piensan en mi familia. Siempre cuidandose de que no vaya a volverme loco de nuevo.
-fran...
-Hey, eso tenemos que aceptarlo todos; estuve loco. Porque si no lo aceptamos, entonces tenía razón, las cosas son mucho más terribles de lo que creemos y yo me pasé un tiempo horrible en el manicomio y drogado por pastillas cuando salí del manicomio solo porque no entendieron mi punto de vista...
-¡fran!
-¿Muy pronto para hablar de esto?
-No es eso-dice Gabriela con cara de frustración- es que...
-No me tienes que dar explicaciones. Es incomodo para todos, creo. Pero tampoco te puedes tomar las cosas tan en serio. Si yo no me rio...-dice fran con voz muy grave- ¡Ah! Acabo de encontrar un punto debil en tu teoría de "creer es poder". Según tu, si yo creía todo eso, entonces eso era verdad. Pero no era.
-Es que ese es el punto, fran. Yo creo que de cierta forma si lo era.
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