lunes, 9 de mayo de 2016

Lucidez del último párrafo

¡Traidor! ¡Mentiroso! Hoy he vuelto a perder la cuenta de los días, ¿sabes? Me has engañado todo este tiempo. Esta será la última vez que te escriba entre las frías paredes que me aprisionan, ¡lo juro!

Yo era un buen estudiante. Terminé la carrera y me puse a buscar trabajo. Pobre de mí, pues la crisis me había dejado una España arruinada. Mi familia me sugirió irme al extranjero pero las cuentas no me cuadraban. Entonces, la conocí a ella; una becaria rusa en prácticas, preciosa. Sin embargo, regresó a su país, no sin antes prometerme que un día volvería a por mí. Qué ingenuo...

Pasaron los meses y la rusa no apareció. Después de aquello, empecé a frecuentar los bares. No sé cómo pasó; pero una vez me enredé en una pelea de borrachos. Pensé que a partir de ahí todo iba a cambiar, y así fue...

Terminé en este sitio. Aquí todos te miran con cara de asesino. Hay veces que hasta me contagio. A menudo me paro a reflexionar y llego a la conclusión de que voy mejorando. Hoy he descubierto quién me escribía todas esas cartas que aparecían bajo mi cama. No sé cómo no me había dado cuenta antes. Una de las cartas empezaba: “¡Traidor! ¡Mentiroso!”... y el resto ya lo sabes.

miércoles, 4 de mayo de 2016

Uncle Petya's Samovar

It is Petya's birthday today, and, like every year, all the family visits him. The most interested are, undoubtedly, the children, always remaining in awe with Petya's insatiable playfulness, who always prepares a few surprises for the youngest.
All the children seem to look at Petya, avidly, who is now holding a huge wooden spoon. He smiles, moving the spoon towards the shiny samovar.
"What is uncle Petya going to take from the samovar?"
The children soon reply, in a cacophony of diverse answers, showing their impatience to know what there is inside:
"A dead fish!"
"An old man's eye!"
"A bald bat!"
"The ashes of our pet dog!"
He twists and turn the huge spoon into the samovar, with thick steam swiftly rising around his arm. He lifts the spoon, full of a grey, oily liquid, splattering everywhere and leaving dark stains wherever it falls.
"What is that, uncle Petya?" He proceeds to dilute the fluid with some hot water and gives each of the children a cup.
"It is a new recipe that I have been working on! It is a juice made with all sorts of wild fruits that I picked this week, together with a blend of spices that I have invented."
The children all smell their cups in awe, marvelling at the pungency and complexity of the aromas. Everyone starts to drink, attempting to enjoy the fruity, but bitter, flavours. The taste, strong and similar to that of a sweet concentrated leaf extract, is not putting them off; they all appear to want to please their uncle and make an effort to sip their astringent beverages.
A crash is heard, everyone turns around to see one of the porcelain cups smashed on the floor, next to a small puddle formed by its remaining contents. The children start reproaching him for dropping it.
"Come on, you should be more careful next time!"
"Is it really that difficult to hold a cup?"
"How did you drop it?"
Meanwhile, some of them calm down and try to soothe the more nervous children:
"It's not that important, we can clean up later."
"It might probably be because he passed out."
"And away."
"Uncle Petya, can you bring me something for me mop it up with?"
Uncle Petya brings a small cloth to do so and everyone soon calms down, once they clean up the spilled drink and take the broken fragments away. Nobody is looking at the corpse any more and everyone continues sipping their drinks. A series of crashes shortly followed, with three more children having dropped their cups, and their bodies. This time uncle Petya tries to clean up the mess. The other children are no longer surprised.
"Why are they being so careless?"
"Uncle Petya, next time we should not drink from these porcelain cups."
"Not that we were going to do so: they have broken four already!"
Some thuds and crashes are heard, everyone is now on the floor, next to smashed cups. I imagine that if uncle Petya could still think, he would be regretting that he took the pottery out. He would most definitely be disappointed with how everyone has broken their cups. Nobody has even bothered to clean up afterwards, either! He might consider that it is a bit simpler to do it while alive, but surely, at least back in the old days, children would always be eager to help, and today only one offered to do so. The samovar is still not empty at all. It had been fun to put some of those herbs in it, right? They imparted a really nice flavour, herbal and bitter; their toxicity is somewhat irrelevant, although the collapsing bodies had surely brought some interesting notes to the atmosphere of the place. I think that uncle Petya might have wanted some more cinnamon in it. He had added a few cloves to the mixture when he was steeping it, but he did notice that it might have been slightly too strong, especially for the children's palate. It would maybe taste better with some honey? The ginger gave it a brilliant flavour too, but maybe his best idea was to use marjoram that he bought in the city a few days ago.

domingo, 24 de abril de 2016

On Concealed Life

It truly is an obstacle, if any are such, to proceed coldly as a squalid pilgrim, feeble in his energy and with a crippled destiny that nobody, but he, knows. Walking unaided through imagination, left to dissolve in time like the sob of an unwary baby, unimportant yet tragic: to be abandoned in vespertine shadows. The beginning, as far as we understand, of a voluntary evasion, an alienated mind seeking warmth in the deterioration of hope… the evanescence of a silhouette blending into the clouds with the last sighs of defeat.
Praised and admired, but inadequate, drowning in the shallowest of seas while leaving a trail underneath the diffuse feet, sparse but ventilated, driving the force of reason beyond its limits to comprehend that which comes of intuition. Atemporal, static, yet the banks extend uniformly, unfolding unto the distance, leaving no motive to follow or to continue. The water is ethereal, surreal, vanishes upon touching, revealing an empty space with no definition, cotton-like but imperceptible.

The gushing waves sieve against his weakness, the clear blue aura blurring the horizon and spreading the field of immaterial consistency in all directions, diffusing itself around the body, now nowhere, firmly attached to the absence of ground, wailing haplessly during its eternal impassivity. And gone.