Amanecer menos diez, en La Manga (Murcia)

—Dream—

I want to kiss you before the world ends. In my dream, the world is ending. Everything is falling apart.

People try to ignore it, to make the feeling go away: but if you listen, it’s there.

Suddenly, I think: the world is ending, and I’ve never kissed you. Where are you?

I run, and run, and run, through streets and offices and libraries, but you are not there. I ask around: have you seen him? Have you seen him? Nobody has. They point me in one direction: it’s the Comic Book Writers’ office, and there’s a party there. Everyone is leaving when I arrive, they are closing the building, they make me go the other way.

I enter a room, and it’s a surprise party. It’s a party my husband has prepared for me, now, that the world is ending. I look around, and you are not there, and I look at him, and I tell him: This is wonderful, honey, but the world is ending and I’ve never kissed him. I leave and keep looking for you.

I get to a fancy office, and the walls are black and the people there dress like Steve Jobs. They tell me: thanks for coming to work with us. Can you help? We need your help to do his. I’d try to help, —I say—, but the world is ending and there’s something else I need to do. With that I leave, and I keep looking around, hoping to see your face in the crowd. Already some parts of the library are crumbling, and it’s a pity because it’s a beautiful place, bright and airy with golden light, like Grand Central Station, in New York, in the movies.

Suddenly I’m in the back seat of a three-door car, and there are two girls in the front seats, so I can’t get away. Will they help me look for you? Will they drive me where you are?

They won’t drive me anywhere, because they are visibly drunk. In fact, one is drunk and the other one is drunk and high. She’s also wearing a white t-shirt, wet with water. Her right nipple shows very clearly: it’s round and brown and hard, and she wants me to touch her. I look at her and I want to refuse, to run away from their laughter and booze and drugs, but it’s too late, because the world has now ended, and I’ve never kissed you.

La Manga, 03/08/2011.

Luna llena sobre el mar (La Manga, Murcia)

colmenas

Pobreza en cualquier parte
es pobreza en todas partes.*


¿Por qué? ¿Por qué son los problemas de otros mis problemas? ¿Estamos juntos en esto? ¿Cómo podemos estar juntos en esto si no sé quiénes son, por qué estamos aquí? No puedo sentirles como siento mi cuerpo. ¿Saben mis uñas de los pies sobre mi pelo? ¿Saben mis dedos de mi corazón?


pau_vallecas

En algún lugar leí:
A menudo me pregunto
si para los demás la vida es más fácil,
o simplemente se les da mejor fingir.

Voy a las afueras de la ciudad y veo todos esos edificios, y no son las grandes urbanizaciones de casitas que me molestan, son los edificios grandes, enormes y las  lucecitas parpadeantes las que me hacen pensar en hormigas, en abejas obreras y en sus insignificantes pequeñas vidas y anónimos problemas. No sé si me asusta porque soy consciente de que, en el fondo, no soy más que una abeja obrera más, en medio de su vida laboral. Ya muerta y olvidada, en el plano general de la vida. Quizá tengo miedo por todas esas pequeñas personas abeja que imagino, viviendo en sitios horribles que nunca veré, pero que puedo imaginar porque en cierto sentido, son iguales al mío. Con ese olor raro que tienen las cocinas que no son la tuya. Con los niños, y la cesta de la ropa sucia y las zurraspas. Con sus peleas y pantallas planas y facturas por pagar y aumentos y el inesperado paro. ¿Por qué me importan? ¿Por qué nunca sabrán que estoy aquí, intentando imaginar quiénes son?

colmenas

* ¿Suena revolucionario? James Wolfensohn, Presidente del Banco Mundial, lo dijo en Monterrey en este discurso de 2002.

Fotos: Noktonmagazine.com

colmenas

Poverty anywhere
is poverty everywhere.*


Why is that? Why are other people’s problems my problems? Are we all together in this? How can we be together in this if I don’t know who they are, why are we here? If I can’t feel them as I can feel my body. Do my toenails know about my hair? Do my fingers know about my heart?


pau_vallecas

Somewhere I read: I often wonder if life is easier for other people or if they are better at faking it.

I get to the outskirts of the city and I see all those buildings, and it’s not the big sprawling of tiny houses that bothers me, it’s the big, huge buildings and the tiny flickering lights that make me think of ants, and working bees, and insignificant little lives, with anonymous problems. I just can’t tell if I’m scared because I know that deep down, I’m just one more working bee, in the middle of its working life. Dead and forgotten already, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I’m scared for all those little bee people I imagine, living in horrible places that I’ll never see, but that I can sort of imagine, because they are in a way, just like mine. With that weird kitchen smell that kitchens other than your own have. With their children and their laundry and their skid marks in the WC. With their fights and flat screens and unpaid bills and salary rises and sudden unemployment. Why do I care about them? Why won’t they ever know that I am here, trying to imagine who they are?

colmenas

* Sounds revolutionary? James Wolfensohn, President of the World Bank, said that in 2002.

Photos: Noktonmagazine.com