Sixth page V

 

Sunday, Foggy. A terrible music has just passed by, fortunately for me, it was a car moving and it’s gone. It’s a shame that, in times of endless access, music get to be that bad. Good music is surviving thanks to Nostalgia but… but I’m holding my second glass of wine and, when second glasses get served,  guilt and remorse just pack their bags and leave. Only anecdotes stay because they can see some way out despite the promises and memories, although made up stories tend to pop up like a unwanted internet publicity; which there’s no choice about it. So They just come, and now I talk, but I meant it then; almost two months ago. All these faces and says went on vacation to nowhere,  and I think they could be back since technology allows it so. We are in the middle of the road. Let’s see what this new year offers us while we keep on our catharsis since we have no friends at all.

 

I kind of like how my mind works. That’s actually why I forced myself to come back to writing. I just can’t think of several things at once. When something worries me, I can’t function at the rest of things, and when I’m writing  I kind of let go that worry for a while, so I need to write a lot for now, and I need to apologize to an audience,  whenever it may be around, for making you people read words that are not trying to convey any message but to calm their author down. What if it came out, kind of like it always does, a new study; only this time revealing that our dead remains are not the ones we buried, but that it turns out there is this discovery: implying that everything we've put under, experiences some phenomenon transformation to a point of exchanging, pretty much everything,  anything: from bones to caskets, and those we pray and praised, are not indeed ours anymore. I was thinking about that because I remember Chávez, along with all his staff, explaining boringly and tirelessly the importance of bringing dead remains from abroad, also the need to practice an exhumation to those resting on national soil. He wanted to unbury Bolívar. He made a whole show about it. To be honest, I’m not sure if they actually did it. I mean, they might have done it, but they have been for too long holding a position from which anything stated doesn’t have to be true. So why bother, I wonder! It might have been sadism, witchcraft: sure but, when it comes to those people: the high leaders of the ruling party – Chávez and some others are dead now – the concept of truth, or righteousness, are not subjected to an actual accountable reality. We don’t even know where Maduro was born. So I was thinking: what if all that waste of resources did actually provoke something; something we may never know. What if God in his own way is punishing us as a nation for all these excesses. There must be some further reasons why, despite of moving out, there are many in pain still. We don’t collect too many stories of success outside the academy or the sport field. Have we ever wondered it? I’m just thinking about it now. Debts make you think a lot…

One sigh, then silence,  then another sigh; this one louder than the previous one. Everyone is covering their cubicles: private little rooms behind curtains, like artists on stage not yet performing, but getting ready to, checking their lines, tuning their instruments,  making a last phone call before the show; this show, showing up and on despite the thoughts. Perhaps that explains the silence. Enjoy the silence with Depeche Mode.

 

Almost noon. Restroom first.  It’s hard to call it restroom after I-don’t-know-how-many-years calling it bathroom.  That is a lot of a second language thing, just like Where have you been. I was asked that question before and I have answered it like: I’ve been in Europe a few times, but that’s not what it was meant to be when it was asked. That’s the thing when we translate first, and it’s fine, I mean, we just have to get used to be a little behind and understand that, to others, we might sound a bit naive sometimes. Mischief, slyness, they come out better suited from the first language, but again: it’s fine. The Sound of Silence is another song, or so I think it is. The thing is that this symphony has more to do with little cough,  a sneeze from time to time, and steps; back and forth, in stereo mode: “surrounding me, going down on me” – now guess what song is that – I see my thoughts in songs, I can’t help it. I think some wine should be taking care of this thirst over my lips, like a kiss right after shutting up a sexy female voice, but neither the kiss nor the wine are dealing with this dryness. I’m writing instead: terrible deal. Another morning. Rainy. Not cold, but rainy. The sky got painted in gray. No sunshine for the moment, no brightness for the words. Dark words instead, more like bored words. Why this need to complain about anything? How do we get annoyed from things that doesn’t happen that often? I want to blame this intolerance on social media: the need for the sudden comes with lack of patience for anything else. Green tea, not like coffee but the virtual agreement places it healthier,  so here I am. It’s quiet, it’s early and Friday, by the way!

 

A statement has come for visit. I’m not sure that I want it to be part of my perception,  but I want to hear it. This is a silent life full of indistinguishable voices; I hear them all the time, when I’m trying to come around, or now where I am sitting on the toilet, which is not figurative,  by the way. I hear them say my words will be only mine and that’s why I remain quiet.  I’m not sure who might want to come to these phrases but the idea I’m giving space is, that our words will define our sense of a world we’re creating for  our own understanding.  In another way, we are islands of thoughts built out of the words we chose to learn, and by those words we’ll get anything that comes further. Time is timing as many times as necessary; and we prioritize based on those words, and that’s who we are. Would you like to change that? We must incorporate more words, so we can get different angles.  Does anyone want that whatsoever? Disposition meets time, but time is no sharing any speed, so the moment is only ours, and my legs want me to get out.