Cereza

En diez años no te di ni un beso,
y en una noche te di más que eso.

C.
25/Feb/2011

Murmullos Recurrentes (english version)

I had always felt a strange fascination with the sparing and frugal behavior of that old man. I was mesmerized with his parsimonious step and the elongated shape of his body.

After parties, I usually walk alone down the alley leading to my house, and whenever I passed in front of the old man hut I felt a shiver through my body. I felt some fear. Sometimes I had to quicken my steps to avoid listening to the gurgles and murmurs that he issued due to his drunken state. Surely cheap liquor I thought. I had the impression that he knew the exact hour I came, even though it was never the same.

Sometimes I used to stare at him from upstairs. On the day he left opened the door of his hovel and I strongly tried to see what there was inside. Throughout my life I could only see a small cot. He lived alone of course. I liked to imagine that his drunkenness could cause him attacks of delirium tremens and write stories of suspense, as Edgar Allan Poe. I'm sure he didn’t.

One night, while returning from one of many meetings with my friends that went through conversations, music from the 80s and a few beers, I heard a screaming and felt more panic than usual. - Must be more drunk than I am, I thought. I ran to my house. I felt his screams stronger and closer each time. I could not open the door due to the desperation I felt. I did not want to see back. I was really scared, shaking. Once I was inside my house I was relieved.

Five days later, neighbors began to complain about the stench that was perceived in the environment which came from the old shack. It is rare, this time all they care. The old man had died for poisoning they said.

There's something I have not told anyone. Every night, when I walk alone to my house, I can still hear his whispers. I just quicken my steps.

C.

Principio de mediocridad

A propósito de San Valentín me puse a ver mi vida en un segundo, como cuando la ven las personas que están a punto de morir, y me vi, ahí, tratando de conquistar el mundo, y sola. Qué linda cochinada.

Cuántos cuerpos, cuántas camas y en ninguna he sentido eso que todo el mundo dice haber sentido y estar satisfechos de haberlo hecho. Me dan pena, como viven engañados con esa falsa satisfacción.

Por lo que a mi respecta, me cuesta llegar al orgasmo y me da muchas ganas de hecharle la culpa a todos esos inéptos inúteles que lo único que quieren es escuchar un orgasmo fingido para no sentirse con la virilidad herida; pero tengo que admitirlo, lo que yo tengo no depende en absoluto de lo físico, y no importa cuánto se esfuercen. Va mucho más allá.

Y después viene el sentimiento de culpa, al darme cuenta de que no he amado a nadie en toda mi vida (y ser amada a la vez), y que todos mis polvos se han estado desperdiciando; y me siento sucia; y me siento vacía cada vez.

Y pienso, estoy en el lugar equivocado en el tiempo equivocado. Genial.

Por suerte, he aprendido que la tierra no es el centro de nada, y que no existe nada extrínsicamente especial acerca de la tierra, ni de la raza humana.

Así que por qué preocuparse por encontrar sentir esa corriente con alguien que no está en la misma frecuencia que uno.

Tan trivial todo esto.

C.
14/Feb/2011