I dreamed of you.

Somewhere, deep within, I dreamed of your eyes. Your hair. Your mind.



I´d wandered so much. Seen all kind of things and all kind of corpses. Seen what I thought I could not see and what I thought could not be. When I saw you I blinked. I woke up, for the first time in a couple of years. You weren´t color. You weren´t light. You were darkness incarnate and I hated you. I hated the thought of you. The very idea you were filled me with hatred, anger, unspeakable things. You were an abyss, unfathomable, unreachable. A depth of wonder and horror that drew me and sucked me in, turned me into an avalanche of stones and gravel falling into you, an untidy, deadly mess of thoughts and wanton lust.

I was lost in that hallway, in that fall, when I saw the first time.


I tried to trick myself. I tried to run. I tried to hide in lesser depths and lesser mysteries. I tried to be one with the light I had become so acquainted to. That harsh light of my eyes, that harsh, unforgiving light. The light that is me. The light that is hatred and sorrow, shame and anger. But I couldn´t stop the fall. I fell into you and willingly drank your darkness. My light was blown out and I was lost in the sickening aroma of you. I had been lost in the light, now I was lost, and happy, in the darkness. Your darkness. Your sultry, cozy, warm darkness.


I named you abyss and gave you my light and you snuffed it out and made sweet love to it. It died suffocated under your skin and under your lips. It died happy. It died, but in death it found itself no longer alone.



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Dormi pensando en pilares y en dioses. En la idea de matar al tiempo y en un lobo con un ojo ambar y otro azul. Dormi en tus brazos, tu cabeza sobre mi pulmon izquierdo, infinitesimalmente sobre mi corazon..

Dormimos. El mundo temblo.

Mi agarre debil y frio te dejo ir y te me resbalaste entre las manos, suavemente, como la caricia de una hoja. Trate de agarrarte, mientras dormia, pero mis sueños te ocultaron, envidiosos de ti, y no pude tomar tu muñeca a tiempo.


Si lo hubiera hecho, estarias aqui, conmigo.


Estarias junto a mi, suspendida en el aire igual que yo. Suspendida, de espaldas a ese muro tan alto, tan terrible, tan viejo. Mecida por los vientos que vienen a gritar y levantarse, que vienen a huir a la milenaria cuna del cielo. Mecida, adolorida, fria y expectante, si.


Pero estarias.


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The little bird had stopped believing a long time ago. In everything. Fairytales, mysteries, books, birds, everything.


It told myself it was folly to believe in anything. Futile. Fleeting. Fickle. Fucking freeloading, it was.


Why believe? Why subject its souls to outside rules and commands. Its lostness, its loneliness, its own self driving loathing could sustain it enough, fly it enough. And it was not to be anyone´s servant or friend, slave or employee.

It was easier that way, it told itself, the littlebird. Easier to fly freely, unloaded, from branch to branch, tree to tree, until it could reach the sunset. That golden sunset all birds want to reach and only the majestic few can.

But, unfortunately for the both of them, the littlebird found a companion. A raven, big, strange, dressed in the feathers of a hawk, lavishly brown and shining. That raven, that weird pretender, fascinated the littlebird.

It did not want for sunset. It did not want for air or open skies. It wanted shiny things, little trinkets hiding in the dirt. Proof and products of a world beyond, a reason to existence other than to be free and fly about. Another kind of light than the orange, purplish one the sunset provided.


And the littlebird trusted the raven and followed it to the darker ends of the trees, where the sunset light was dim and gone. And there, in that concealed pocket of twilight, it sang for the raven and believed in it, in its brown fake feathers and the black real ones, in its garish beak and its hungry eyes.

There was a shriek. A ruffling. A crying and a flapping. One bird flew away, the other stayed in a bed of brown, dead feathers. The raven took to the sky, as it had never done before, and the littlebird looked to the dark ground and hoped for trinkets. It looked, it hoped, it waited.

It believed in the raven. Even when it was the raven the one that had left it stranded in that half light, half darkness. It believed in it, the littlebird had no other choice.


For what point is there to believe in anything if one cannot believe in it even after said thing has proven otherwise?


"I dunno, man, I thought this was a story about stupid birds"

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Si el mundo tuviera que acabarse, acabaria conmigo.

Si el mundo tuviera que empezar, empezaria contigo.


Nos complementamos, cierto?



Quiza.


O quiza yo tan solo sea un idiota, como tiendo a serlo. Yo se, no te gusta que diga eso. Sin embargo, es una definicion muy ambigua. Idiota puede ser muchas cosas. Idiota puede signifcar muchisimas cosas.

El mundo fue hecho por idiotas que de casualidad tenian algo en lo cual no eran tan tontos. Los grandes genios tienen todos un especialidad, pero para el resto de cosas, para el resto del mundo, para el resto de su vida eran unos completos y estupidos idiotas.


Amar no es mi especialidad y no soy ningun genio. O al menos no todavia. Sin embargo, estoy bastante seguro que no importa cuanto tiempo pase, nunca sere un genio en el amor. Tengo mis errores, muchos, y mis cosas buenas, pocas.


Pero quisiera pensar que mis cosas pocas son suficientes para que quieras mis cosas muchas. Se que es una estafa, pero es mi estafa y quiero enredarte en ella. Quiero robarte, hasta el ultimo centimo. Robarte todo tu dolor y todo tu miedo y quiza, si tengo suerte, una sonrisa.


Quiero ver el mundo contigo. Y reirnos de cosas que solo nos hagan reir a nosotros. Y ser insoportable. Y ser irremplazable.

Son sentimientos egoistas, y no me gustan. Odio ser egoista. Odio pensar en mi. Pero estoy dispuesto a hacerlo, para que estes aqui. Para que no te vayas.

No quiero que te vayas. Quedate, abrazame, besame amor, que mañana el mundo acaba conmigo.



Y comienza contigo, otra vez. Cada vez.

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