Emito mis alaridos sobre los techos de este mundo.
Walt Whitman.
Un poeta de mi tierra dijo alguna vez: “la poesía es el consuelo de bobos sin amor”. Me puse a pensar que mucho de cierto encierra, porque nada nos vuelca a escribir con mayor pasión, necesidad y sobre todo honestidad, que los momentos de desolación, tristeza, desesperación y angustia. Y lo mismo ocurre con quienes leen poesía, precisan de ella cuando están quebrados por la vida. Y la buscamos porque, la poesía puede, en dosis bien servidas, alimentar el espíritu, derrotar la soledad y sobrellevar la tristeza.
Poesía
que no estás hecha
sólo de palabras
amontonadas en versos.
En ti hay una tormenta
esperando en silencio.
En ti existen los mundos
que soñamos
contra todos los pretextos,
en ti se hospedan las dulzuras
pero también los tormentos.
Te escondes en la daga
que hiere
a los amantes eternos,
en el viento que arrecia
en los olvidados cementerios,
en la noche bohemia
que abre los portales del tiempo.
En el lugar donde se han quedado
guardados los recuerdos.
En el valor que admite
que tiene mucho miedo.
En los corazones que se derrumban
después de que rompen sus sueños.
La poesía surge cuando aprendemos a observarnos a nosotros mismos, porque al concentrar la atención internamente, empezamos a sensibilizarnos y esa sensibilidad nos lleva a preguntarnos por qué el mundo que vemos y palpamos es como es, por qué sentimos lo que sentimos. ¿No tiene ninguna relevancia nuestra llegada a este torrente de vida y, aún más, la decisión de quedarnos?
Escribió alguna vez Almafuerte, que la felicidad humana no había entrado en los designios de Dios. Entonces existir, supone soledad y desarraigo. Por suerte, se nos ha regalado el arte para soportar la náusea, por suerte, hay un mago que nos salva y nos cura: el poeta.
Todos estamos solos y somos vulnerables y la poesía es el testimonio de nuestra odisea a la deriva. Nos inventamos acantilados para chocar, y en ese choque se calma nuestro ahogo.
De pregunta en pregunta y de centrar la mirada en algo que por cotidiano no es insulso, de instantes así se va nutriendo la poesía. Y ya ella, tan sabia como el tiempo mismo, sabe en qué momento gobierna las pasiones del ser humano para convertirlas en versos, para que el papel sea el paredón y el receptor de los arrepentimientos, los dolores o las añoranzas. Todo nuestro cansancio, nuestra angustia, nuestra alegría, todas nuestras noches, nuestro desdén y rebeldía, nuestra congoja y abandono, nuestro llanto y agonía, nuestra herencia irrenunciable y dolorosa, todo nuestro sufrimiento, en fin, toda nuestra pobre y maravillosa vida. Por eso es que escribir poesía es el acto más privado de nuestra vida, nace de la soledad y el ensimismamiento, hecha para nadie, para todos, para nada, para todo.
Pero las palabras del poeta no siempre acarician. El poema es almíbar y veneno, pájaro y jaula, infierno y redención. El poeta no teme visitar los recodos oscuros de la poesía. Advierte que, cuanto más cerca la belleza, más cerca la desdicha, cuanto más cerca el amor, más cerca la despedida. El adiós anida siempre en el calor de un abrazo.
El poeta se asoma al abismo, al suyo, a ese que Nietzsche advertía no asomarse demasiado. Se asoma y lamenta ya no ser él, sino otro. Sin embargo, lo consuela escribir, él ha sorteado las oscuras y bravías aguas del abismo interior, y con la sangre del corazón ha precisado el bosquejo de amores y desventuras. Tal vez sea mejor no separar el amor de la desventura. El amor es desventura.
El poeta escribe para herirse, también para gritar el dolor que le causa herirse. Herida y grito hay en el poema. Esa misma necesidad tienen los lectores, precisan de la poesía para vivir, tanto como el pan y los besos, aunque les llueva en los ojos la nostalgia fugitiva de los versos.
Dice Shakespeare, que el amor es una criatura bifronte y la pareja es un monstruo de dos cabezas. Lo aprendemos o lo sufrimos, o sólo sufrimos y complacidos vamos al abismo, aun sabiendo que lo único seguro en el amor es la ceniza. Porque la otra cara del amor o quizá la única es la del abandono, que se esconde desde la primera mirada. Después vienen los recuerdos a secarnos la boca, después viene el fantasma a instalarse en la memoria.
“Si tengo la sensación física de que me levantan la tapa de los sesos, sé que eso es poesía”, es así como explicaba Emily Dickinson su oficio de tejer palabras para lograr levantarle a alguno la tapa del cráneo.
Reconocerse vulnerable, verse débil en el exterior e irse diluyendo en el interior y agarrarse de la poesía y encomendarse a ella como diosa que ahonda en la melancolía sin condenarnos a ella.
¡Ay de aquel que no responde con su canto a los dulces y furiosos llamados del corazón!
Cuando se ama se corre el riesgo de sufrir, no hay amores que no hagan sufrir, no importa la lealtad o subyugar, todo amor desgarra. La palabra demuestra que amar tiene sus consecuencias… sufrimientos.
Escribimos mientras aguardamos a que esta realidad nos agobie un poco menos y seguimos caminando, buscándonos en lo desconocido, hasta que el dolor que llevamos dentro nos sobrepasa y nos hace regresar una y otra vez a la pluma.
¿De qué sirve pensar y sentir si todo ello no nos ayuda a vivir mejor? Nos arrojaríamos al vértigo de la ignorancia.
El gozo y la tristeza son dos fuerzas que se desafían, pero que dolorosamente duermen en el mismo lecho, el poeta los enfrenta y consigue que cada uno se desnude y cuente su historia. El poema yace en lo cotidiano, en lo humano, en lo visceral y es allí en donde el escritor ha encontrado un asilo al que nos invita, no sin antes dejarnos ese aliento de esperanza que nos deja la posibilidad de seguir escribiendo, la poesía no tiene que ser glamorosa ni excelsa, sino que debe acercarse a la profundidad del ser, a lo que nos duele, a lo que nos aleja o a lo que veces también nos retiene. Amamos en lo profundo, amamos en el dolor.
El poeta debe estar despierto a las simples cosas, agudizar los siete sentidos, incluido el de la magia y el del absurdo. Hay que vivir la poesía, después, si queda tiempo, se escribe. La esencia de la poesía está en el modo de percibir, escribir es una añadidura. Hay que ubicarse a un ladito del camino y ver pasar las personas y las cosas. Hacerse amigo de los duendes. Tener un dolor permanente en el costado, el mundo suele derrumbarse sobre la cabeza del poeta.
La poesía no le da la espalda al dolor, a ningún dolor, tampoco lo glorifica, más bien rechaza que sea sufrir.
Lo que ella no perdona es que haya quien dañe. La poesía detesta la crueldad, la golpea en su centro y de ese choque ilumina una cara distinta. Que haya quienes naveguen a su gusto el ajeno dolor, eso la poesía no lo tolera.
La poesía es una forma de resucitar, una segunda vida para los recuerdos. Los poemas sirven para detener el tiempo, todas esas imágenes se encuentran aquí, imágenes de otro tiempo: en ocasiones la poesía es más una pintura, una imagen estática del tiempo, que una reflexión sobre su paso.
Todos nosotros soñamos, amamos y sufrimos, y de todo eso se nutre la poesía, no vivimos sólo para cumplir deseos vulgares.
Buscamos la fuerza expresiva como una forma de conjurar nuestras fragilidades y nuestros miedos. La poesía es un territorio donde uno puede reconstruirse, ir hasta el fondo, desentrañarse.
Los versos podrían ayudarnos a mirar más allá y, ojalá, darnos consuelo en estos tiempos en los que da miedo vivir. La palabra poética tiene que servir para cortarnos la respiración, para hacernos parpadear de la sorpresa, para exorcizarnos, para sonreírnos hacia adentro.
El poema puede llegar a ser un ejercicio compensatorio y también nos lleva a exponernos, a enfrentar riesgos.
Los poetas han sido los primeros en revelar que la eternidad y lo absoluto no están más allá de nuestros sentidos, sino en ellos mismos. Esta eternidad y esta reconciliación con el mundo se producen aquí y ahora, en nuestra vida mortal. Porque si hay alguna inmortalidad es seguramente la que nos otorga el amor y la poesía.
Habrá que buscar resquicios de vida bajo las ruinas de los actos cotidianos para no morir, encontrar la forma de transgredir lo que se nos impone.
Que se acabe todo, pero que nos quede la poesía, la música, que nos quede la esperanza, como dijo Emily Dickinson: “La esperanza es esa cosa con plumas que se posa en el alma, y entona melodías sin palabras, y no se detiene para nada, y suena más dulce en el vendaval”.
VIENE DE ADENTRO
En la hora del silencio,
un poeta camina de cara al cielo,
invoca al inválido recuerdo,
los tumultuosos recuerdos.
Manotazos de ansia
resuenan en su alma.
En una copa de vino
asiste a su propio naufragio.
En la hora de la lluvia,
un fantasma
camina sangre adentro,
persigue incansable
la gota ebria
que apagará la llama
de algún sueño.
El poder de la pluma es la de traducir la realidad en emoción pura y esa llama es suficiente para avivar el espíritu y derrotar la tristeza
Si no brota del alma no es poesía, porque la poesía es carne y sangre, es desgarro y todo en movimiento es espíritu. “Escribe con sangre y verás que la sangre es espíritu”.
Algunos poetas se jactan de llevar una corona de laurel, otros en cambio seguirán soñando caminos con la espina en el corazón.
Miserere mei, Deus,
secundum magnam misericordiam tuam
et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum
dele iniquitatem meam.
Arnaldo respiró hondo, mientras el coro y los fieles alzaban sus voces. Pedían perdón, compasión. Como un relámpago, recordó a los habitantes de Béziers, mientras suplicaban, ante la espada y la lanza, compasión.
Pero aquello no le perturbaba. Arnaldo era un hombre que tenía bien claras sus prioridades. Como legado papal e inquisidor, su labor era limpiar la mala hierba de entre los hombres. No podía negar que, en su celo, había eliminado a inocentes.
Pero aquello tampoco le incomodaba. Incluso aquellos que habían caído sin motivo tenían motivos para agradecerle. Les había otorgado el don del martirio, y ahora, por incumplidores que hubieren sido, gozaban de la bendición del Señor. ¿Qué más se podía pedir?
“Quizás una larga vida”, se le ocurrió. Pero inmediatamente apartó aquella idea de su mente. Una larga vida… ¿para qué? Si no son más que briznas de paja en el viento. Nadie podía refutarlo. Más de veinticinco mil habían muerto en un día a sus órdenes. Y en el mundo, poco había cambiado. La gente es mucha, y a veces sobra.
Mueve bien los labios, no es cosa de que alguien sospeche que su mente no está en el salmo. Que poco lo necesita, la verdad. Su conciencia está tranquila; ni un pecado en su cuenta. Todo lo hecho ha sido por la gloria de Dios. Arden los hombres, la carne es sajada, la sangre corre. “Matadlos a todos; Dios reconocerá a los suyos”. Los niños lloran, sus madres gritan desesperadas, mientras los soldados del rey con todos acaban.
Pero esto no le perturbaba. Era su deber, extirpar la herejía. Un placentero deber. Y es que no había nada más satisfactorio que el destruir el mal. El mismo había blandido la espada en más de una ocasión, y nunca le había temblado la mano antes de hundirla en el cuerpo de alguien.
Quizás alguien más débil se hubiese asustado, quizás alguien más débil no lo comprendería, y se horrorizaría. Algunos de los que le acompañaban, de hecho, se habían sobrecogido cuando dio la orden. Necios…
Tunc acceptabis sacrificium iustitiae,
oblationes et holocausta;
tunc imponent super altare tuum vitulos.
Miserere mei, Deus.
El salmo llegaba a su fin. Arnaldo sonrió. Su sacrificio ya había sido ofrecido. Y, de buen seguro, aceptado. Y si no, aquello no le importaba. Haría más.
Been listening to birds of death(the one Fyodor perform with his cello) the original piece has a piano duet so I've come to conclusion on drawing Nikolai with piano. :))
✞ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: alternative!yoongi x reader
✞ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k
✞ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: yoongi has tongue pierings, bigdick!yoongi, dirty talk, raw sex, riding, nipple play, nipple biting, minor hair tugging, size kink, using a polaroid during sex, mention of dacryphilia to open
disclaimer: this is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. yoongi is used solely as a face and a name for the story. this is not a representation of real-life scenarios.
series masterlist | main masterlist
“Don’t hide your pretty noises. I want you to cry for me.” Yoongi emphasises his requests as he speeds up his pace. His lips bathing your shoulder in kisses as he makes his way up to the sensitive part of your neck, causing you to shiver under his touch.
His name leaves your lips in a sinful prayer for the man in between your thighs. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, all you’re able to do is feel him filling you to the brim with all of him as tears wet your eyes, obscuring your vision.
“You’re fucking perfect,” you hear Yoongi muttering into your chest as you move yourself up and down, impaling yourself on his cock, “treating me well, ni—ah, fuck baby!”
Yoongi’s head is thrown back against the plush grey headrest of the couch, his bottom lip caught in between his teeth as he grunts in pleasure. One of his hands rest on your hips, the warmth of his palm and the coldness of his rings decorating his lithe fingers causes shivers to run over your body.
He is incredible. Insatiable even. Yoongi knows your body better than you know it yourself. He knows just how to fuck you right, every single time.
With your body shaking and eyes screwed shut tight in arousal, you miss Yoongi reaching out beside him. A click, accompanied by a quick bright flash takes you by surprise, causing your eyes to flutter open.
Halting your movements, you peer down at Yoongi who is staring straight into your eyes — blackened, blown out and filled with lust. You clench your pussy around his cock and smile at the polaroid in his hands.
“Want to remember this moment.”
“Well let me help you,” you tell him as you grab at his hand and place it on your tits, guiding him to palm you. Yoongi is more than happy to indulge you and plays with your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging at the bud, watching it harden under his touch. You lace your fingers with his and then watch as he snaps a new image of him groping you.
One of your hands comes to rest on the back of his head, fingers gripping into his long strands of raven hair and giving them a soft tug in that way he loves. You lean down and kiss Yoongi with a surge of urgency. It’s wet and messy as your tongues tangle and lips smack against each other. His dual tongue bars give the kiss an added edge as he usages it to his advantage to lick against your lower lip before pulling at the skin in between his teeth. From below, you feel Yoongi lift his hips causing the tip of his cock to press deeper inside of you. A strangled moan slips past your kiss bitten lips at the welcomed pleasure.
Yoongi is thick and heavy inside of you, stretching you loose in ways no man ever has done before. Sex with Yoongi is always exciting and with added kinks to explore with each other, he always leaves you wanting more every time.
“How’s my angel doing?” He whispers as he plays about with the settings on the camera before pointing the lens back in your direction.
“G-good, want to keep going—fuck!” You curse at the end as he moves his hips again and snaps another image of you as your face contorts in unadulterated pleasure.
“G’on, move for me princess, show me how cock drunk you get for me, yeah.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You slid your hands across his chest, tracing the lines of the dragon tattoo that spans across his well built upper body. Through lustful eyes, you watch as Yoongi bites his lip at your touch and you keen, knowing that you’re the one to bring Min Yoongi down to this state with you.
Lifting your hips, you glide your cunt from his base to the tip, managing to feel every vein that wraps around his pretty length.
“Fuck, wait stay there. Let me get a picture of this, holy shit…” Yoongi proclaims and takes the third picture on the polaroid. “Don’t move. Keep yourself hugging my tip, fuck you gotta see how wet you got my cock princess.”
You do as you’re told and you keep your body positioned above him, cockhead nuzzled snuggly in your small hole as you await the polaroid to print the film.
Minutes pass and it doesn’t take long for your legs to start trembling from your muscles being stagnant in this position for a little longer than you’re used to.
“Yoongi, I wanna fuck!” Your protest comes out whiny as you fight the urge to drop yourself down to begin fucking him again.
The sound of the polaroid printing is heard between the both of you and you watch as Yoongi reaches for the film, shaking it in the air for a few seconds before looking at it.
He groans, and you feel arousal build up and leak onto Yoongi’s cock. The sounds that Yoongi creates, every moan, every rumble of his chest pushes you to keep still.
Next thing, Yoongi is twisting the picture around for you to see with your own eyes and what a sight it was. His length looks swollen with use, hard and stunningly decorated in those pretty veins you enjoy giving attention when he allows you. His length glistens under the flash of the camera from the juices he has spilled from your pussy and now it’s your turn to moan.
“Can you see too? The way I barely fit inside you…” he trails off. “Look at you struggling to take my fat cock in your tight cunt, I’ve never seen anything so fucking stunning. This is art.”
Warmth spreads around your body at his words as you look at the image as he speaks to you with so much filth. You flutter around him, utterly brain dead from Yoongi’s cock.
You’re not given enough time to think before Yoongi rocks his hips up, stroking your walls beautifully as he pulls you down to bury himself back in the hilt of his home which is your pussy. Tears gather in your eyes, giving them a sparkle that Yoongi loves to coax from you as he throws the camera back to the side in order for him to guide you up and down his throbbing dick.
The burn in your thighs is present and makes itself apparent as you continue to work your muscles into overdrive as you ride Yoongi like your life depended on it. Yoongi wraps both his hands around your back, palms resting against your clammy skin as he whispers filthy praises and prays of you into your skin, absolutely lost in the lust that is you and your tiny cunt.
You scratch at his chest, digging your nails through the dragon tattoo, breaking the skin and knowing that there will be a trail of red desire marked into his skin for the evening.
“You’re so big!” You hiccup, feeling Yoongi increase the speed of his hips into you, his ego swelling at your words.
“Ah, your pussy is leaking all over me, making such a mess of me angel.” Yoongi punctuates his words with a firm buck into your cunt, Yoongi highlights the loud squelching sounds of your ministrations.
One of his hands finds your wrist and brings it up to his mouth where he places kiss after kiss on each knuckle. He guides your hand further down until it finds the column of his throat and you rest there.
“G’on princess, choke me a little,” Yoongi grunts through gritted teeth and so you do as you’re told, applying a light amount of pressure around Yoongi’s throat. You watch as Yoongi’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth opens in pleasure, his tongue coming out to lick at the corner of his lips. The glint of his tongue ring makes you whine. Your body manages to fight through the overstimulation of his cock fucking into you over and over again as you take over as much as Yoongi is allowing you.
Now, you’re using each other and it’s never felt so fucking pleasurable. You eye the polaroids that Yoongi had taken early scattered around the sofa around his body and you smirk as the tears are rolling down your cheeks in small rivulets. You are both drowning each other in sex so intense, the pleasure borders on almost painful.
With each drop off your hips, you feel him deep in your stomach. Your body burns in overexertion but you don’t stop until you’ve both reached your ends.
“I’m taking you so well, Yoongi, can you feel me!?” You swivel your hips as you ask.
“Nobody got a pussy like yours… best pussy I’ve ever fucked, princess, swear.” Yoongi rasps through your hold on his throat. At his words, you squeeze your fingers just a little tighter around his throat.
“You gonna come, angel?”
You nod at him. “I’m so close, please. Please, I need to!” You beg him to let you finally reach your climax, your hips working faster.
“Just like that baby, you’re doing so good.” you could hear that his voice is straining as his hips become sloppier in their movements. Your spare hand reaches for the headrest of the sofa behind him.
“Fuck, yes, keep going, keep going, I’m gonna fill you to the fucking brim, gonna watch you bloat with my cum,” Yoongi is loud, not afraid who around you both hears his promise to you.
The living room fills with moans and skin slapping against skin as the pair of you use each other to reach your climaxes. Finally, yoongi leans forward and takes a nipple in between his teeth and runs both his tongue bars over the hardened bud back and forth. Yoongi bites down hard and in return, your pussy vices him in and your hands release from his neck. All at once, Yoongi’s breath hitches as the air returns to his burning lungs and comes inside of you, filling you with his hot sticky white seed as he paints your body with filthy praises.
Soon after, you meet your orgasm shortly behind his own. Your body stills as you tremble above him as your body releases your arousal all over Yoongi, making a mess of him and probably the couch underneath.
He is quick to wrap his arms around you, holding you as your body twitches through your orgasm. Yoongi can’t help but give tiny shallow thrusts to help aid you through it.
You both bask in the glow of intense sex as you both collapse onto each other. Yoongi is the first to move as he wraps his arms around you and lifts you up off of his softening cock. The feeling of him moving through your sensitive cunt causes you to hiss but you pout when he has fully removed himself.
After catching his breath, Yoongi guides you to lie down on the sofa as he reaches once more for the polaroid.
“Yoongi, what’re you—,” you’re cut off with the familiar click of the camera and bright flash momentarily brightening up the living room before bathing it back in it’s natural darkness.
“I can’t fuck you that well and not get the money shot, can I?” You hear the smirk in his voice. You feel a hand wrap around your ankle and then your legs are being pried apart slowly. “C’mon, let me see how messy you are for me, yeah?”
Now it’s your turn to laugh as you indulge Yoongi in his request, giving him the opportunity to get the device up close and personal to your cunt before snapping a new image.
“Yeah, these are definitely going into the wank bank for later.”
OMG THAT FINALE WAS INSAAAANE !!!! i want more so bad like what happens from that point??? does she end up w jungkook, what happens to yoongi, do they ever visit again?? this last chapter took me through so many emotions 😭
THANK YEWWWWW !!!!! all of this to be answered at season 2 😋😋
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ still working on it. smut (non-con, mnster fucking, long tongue, bg dck! jimin, somnophilia, forced voyeurism?) scary (?) confusing, angst.
If there is a God, he must be a cynical, cruel, tentative being.
Jimin squeezed his chin hard, his skull throbbing, eyes fixed on your wool coat-clad back. He was beginning to hate that olive green macrame that contorted in your tense muscles that you hadn't let him see for a couple of weeks.
Jimin thought that maybe it was your period the reason you didn't want him to touch you, that the headaches at night were from the stress of being so far from society.
He always tried to be a good husband: making you tea, murmuring sweet nothings to you before going to sleep, giving you your space while he took Pepper for a walk to the lake. But winter has gotten crueler, the naked trees are like veins in the eyes of the white sky, pulsant and hideous, and your wall has grown in size.
The nights have become silent. You only know how to do one activity besides sleeping: cooking. Mainly meats: grilled, baked, stewed and steamed. With spices, drunk in wine, boiled with basil, cut into pieces, and shredded by hand. Jimin started to hate the pungent smell of dead cows.
Every night, you ate quietly at the table, and for Jimin to get the words out of you, it felt like he had to put his hand down your throat and spread them on the table. Barely audible, barely sentences.
It was a late winter afternoon, Jimin had tried to be flirty for the first time in a while since there was little time before he had to work again, and he wouldn't see you again for months.
It was a simple kiss on your neck that made your skin crawl, and you almost cut yourself with the knife in fear.
He was now sitting at the island, the kitchen illuminated by the grayish sun of cold afternoons. You were cutting the fat from a calf with the precision of a butcher. Jimin had both hands covering his mouth, thoughtful.
"Mom asked about you. I told her you were at the lake." He murmured to cut the tension of that odd rejection.
"I was sleeping." You put the knife aside, looking for another piece of meat in the refrigerator. Almost four pounds on the table, but Jimin didn't want to engage in your weird fucking activities.
"I've already told her like twice that you've been sleeping, she'll think you're sick or something."
You did not answer.
"I'm fine, it's just the nightmares. I don't sleep at night."
"I know, I know." Jimin sighed.
He felt sorry about every time he found you curled up on the living room furniture, sweaty and breathing fast; you were sleeping but seemed forced.
"When we go to Joon's house in the summer, we'll look for a doctor."
Your head tensed, tilting. Then you denied it.
"Don't you want to see a doctor?"
"I'm not going to Namjoon's house this year." You huffed like it was obvious.
Jimin frowned, both hands falling to the cold marble in surprise.
"But this year I'm bringing my parents to meet you, Namjoon is getting married in July, I don't-" he snapped, but you shook your head again while still doing your mechanical cut and throw movement.
Jimin cleared his throat, and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye.
"What?" You responded innocently.
"You really don't want to see my mom?"
"Jimin, I'm getting tired of this."
"What are you going to do, take another nap?"
The blood from the meat on your hands began to drip down to your wrists, the metallic smell causing you a voracious appetite.
"You want wine with the grill?"
"Are you fucking serious right now?"
You sighed, counting to ten. Just a few more hours.
"You can invite her to the cabin, if that's what you want. God knows how much we need someone else in this place."
"I already told you we'll go in a week."
"Without consulting me."
"What should we talk about? We've been planning this for a year."
"I don't feel like going anymore."
"These days you don't feel like doing shit."
You chopped the carrots on the bloody board, the chopping making noises in the immense silence between the two of you.
"It's like you want me to leave." He spoke.
You stood up when you pressed the knife on the cutting board; the tip stuck into the wood.
That violence, pure and irrational force.
You looked at him with erratic eyes, Jimin didn't know if you were offended or not. Your hands clenched the counter, and your lips trembled trying to say something.
When you lowered your gaze, Jimin knew that your shoulders had not collapsed because of his tone, but because what he said was true.
"Oh my God, I'm right." A pained laugh. His body leaned back on the island that separated you two. "Is there anyone else?"
Silence.
Jimin's skin chilled when before turning to the meat again, barely visible, he saw a tiny smile lining your lips. Self-conscious and cruel.
Before he could think, the sweet husband's façade had broken and with long steps, he approached until he turned you over with his fists in that damn coat. You looked at him with wide eyes, and you wiped your mouth as if the fact that Jimin was going to kiss you disgusted you. The blood of the calf covers your lips.
You were cruel, and he wanted so much to love you, to hug you and hit that distant look on your features. To squeeze your cheeks and spit in your face so you get off that fucking cloud. That you wouldn't look at him with so much hate, with that thousand-yard stare. Take that fucking knife and put it near your beautiful neck and scream 'LOVE ME AGAIN, I FUCKING DESERVE IT'.
"You think this is a fucking game? I've been wanting things to go back to normal since October, but you," His nose wrinkled. "You have become nothing, you are just another object in this useless old cabin."
Your eyes seemed to get closer and closer to Jimin's, your pupils dilating.
"And even as an object I can't fuck you, you're useless." He let go of your coat and walked away, each word dying in his throat. He couldn't believe that he could talk to his wife like that, what kind of man was he?
Then, a single person came to his head.
"Are you seeing Ryan?"
Ryan was the one who sold the land to Jimin, every now and then he would pass by the road and stop to drink coffee and fish in the lake with Jimin. It's not that Ryan is an attractive man, nor a man who knew how to talk to women because he was a first-class hermit. He was not a man you would cause your marriage to fail with...
...Right?
"That's it. I'm going to sell the house."
"No." You were quick, your shoulders rose as if a puppeteer had lifted your strings, and you trembled again, denying.
"No, please."
"So it is because of Ryan?'
You inhaled all the air in the room, your eyes a predator.
"Ryan is a parasite in front of him, filth, a mere fly on the wall." You barked causing echoes to reverberate off the walls of your boyfriend's chest. Your trembling fingers covered your mouth instantly.
The knife in your hand, the fingers bloody from the fresh meat, that green coat that you didn't take off, the tangled hair. Jimin didn't recognize you, your sweetness had turned bitter; like a viscous liquid made from plants. Raw and strange.
"You're a fucking whore." His voice trembled, the sting of tears wanting to flow like shooting water.
He took his coat, with a whistle he called Pepper and they both went with a roar through the wide, dense forest.
The afternoon became denser in the forest, the leaves did not move and Pepper spent the entire way sniffing the trees, howling at the birds that passed by without squawking. Jimin put a hand in his coat, the other looking for some signal to call Hoseok, his mother, the damn police. Whoever.
He found his headphones in his jacket and placed them on top of his head, connecting them to his cell phone. He turned on the Bluetooth.
Connected.
"Come on, fuck." He mumbled until Hoseok's number started ringing in his ears. It rang once, twice, five times before he could hear anything.
"Seok, couldn't you last longer to answer the damn call?" The lake did not move, his boots made the wood of the dock squeak as he walked from one side to the other.
"No, I just need you to help me with something, I don't want Joon or my mom to worry, but I need you to find a doctor and come here...p-preferably someone with knowledge of mental problems."
Disconnected.
"Hello? Hoseok, hello." He repeated, turning on the Bluetooth again.
"No, it's just a little seasonal depression, but I don't want it to escalate into something worse."
Disconnected.
"Shit, fucking headphones." On impulse, he grabbed the device with the cell phone and threw it as hard as possible into the gray water.
And with the cell phone falling, he glimpsed the pale skin of a being on the other side of the lake, it didn't look like a bear or a deer. Pepper started barking, loud and fast.
"Quiet." Jimin tried not to alarm the creature emanating from the foliage, his dark eyes approaching the evening light.
Jimin stayed still until he saw how the creature's feet approached the tip of the other dock, his eyes narrowed to see his own reflection, blonde hair, and the same features. A being as tall and wide as a log, he was wearing a coat that Jimin had given up for lost months ago, but it was dirty and torn due to the size of the beast.
He was seeing a Behemoth in his own skin. A dim Jimin, a monster, an abomination of himself.
His feet began to move as the animal threw itself toward the water in his direction. Pepper stayed behind him, but he couldn't think of saving her. He was going to die.
He prayed it was a hallucination of his tired brain, a joke of his own mind. But he could hear the earth tremble with each approaching footstep.
Every tree looked the same, the path home had vanished and all he could do was scream for his mother, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Mom, please, help. Help." He screamed as his feet were grabbed, the wet earth choking on his whimpers.
"Help!" The creature screamed even louder, in the same voice but drowned.
Crawling wasn't worth it, the creature had grabbed him by his hair and flipped him over. Seeing his face, rough and full of scratches, caused an abominable pain in Jimin's chest; he wanted to vomit out his organs and die before continuing with this terrifying reality.
The last thing he remembers is his head crashing into a log, the guttural roar of his mammoth twin, and the green inferno engulfing his body as he falls to the ground.
When he opened his eyes, Jimin was in his room, his body tied to a couch in the corner. His mouth was muffled with a kitchen rag: the disgusting, metallic taste of the beef made him nauseous.
His eyes were guided to where your body was lying, you had the Prince t-shirt that Jimin had given you on. Your wet hair, the smell of coconut shampoo, the shower running in the other room, Pepper's howling in the distance. This was the first time you looked so angelic in a long time, so peaceful in your own dreams.
He couldn't move, his body felt heavy and slow. His fingers moved, his eyes too but it was as if it was a ghost of his body.
You sighed suddenly. With his hair standing on end, Jimin tried to call you but his voice didn't come out of his lips, a mere hoarse. Word dust.
Your body stood up unsteadily. You rolled your head to the entrance and smiled: there it was, on all fours, his mouth dirty with blood from the meat you had saved for him, those cupped pupils that you missed.
His body crawled closer until it reached your knees where he pressed his huge hand on one of your thighs, the wine bottle running down your body with each touch.
"Love," he roared until he climbed and transformed into a tower above you, nearly seven feet of pure dedication. You fed him daily with everything you had in the house. "My love."
That's what he called you. Jimin shook his head in the corner, his eyes threatening to close, his neck stretched out trying to reach you uselessly.
"Ah," his pale black tongue unrolled to reveal discolored pills at the tip.
You stuck out your tongue and let the creature's hands squeeze your neck so you would open wide, open better so his tongue would enter directly into your throat. The tickling in your esophagus from the movement of the wet muscle had your core tight.
When you stuck your tongue out, saliva connected both of your mouths, your eyes tilted; drunk and in love.
"More," he claimed, taking your small body in his hands until he had you anchored to his waist, both legs dangling. His fingers tore away what was covering your pussy, and Jimin could see the marks on your body, some yellowish about to fade, others a vivid red.
You lowered his sweat with the balls of your feet, his thick red cock throbbing at your entrance. Your body began to feel the effect of the sleeping pills, turning you into a nebula hanging from a warm mass.
When the tip entered you screamed into his chest, your nails scratching the flesh until it bled. The monster groaned in pain and knocked you to the ground causing the floor to shake with the weight of both of you.
You didn't have time to complain as his sharp teeth clamped down on your shoulder to keep you from moving as he took his cock all the way in, blood pouring from your shoulder.
The pain was such that you imagined how the inside of your organs was breaking, the bones creaking under his hands on your breasts, your voice becoming a thread until it was silent with each roar in your ear.
The watery, repetitive sound. The bulbous tip covered in juices went in and out so easily that the fabric covering your stomach seemed like it wanted to tear at any moment.
"Fuck, fuck, Minnie. Hurts good." It was like you were communicating with a caveman, but your brain didn't function properly when it came to him.
"Good, I like hurting you." Thick, dark blood ran down to his chin as his tongue smothered you again. Your eyes closing, your hands trapped in one of his. Your moans cover the dark heart of the beast with a soft layer until your limbs gave up, unconscious and so wet for them.
Little human trapped in his forest, an inferior being praising a God she does not understand out of pure lust. You were adorable, warm inside, you made him big and unstoppable and he thanked you by filling you with his cum every night after you fed him. That was your only request, every time.
Now he was named Minnie and you shouted his name every time he did something right. Learned words like more, hurt, inside, want, fuck.
And just because he molded himself into something you already had, you adored him.
His tongue came out to snake around one of your breasts, his wide, long thumb holding your mouth open. Your dead eyes casually open to see your tied husband, your head wobbling and arms hagging in the air with every pounding like a rag doll.
He couldn't bare it, you were being raped in front of his eyes, and he couldn't do anything else than stare at your unconscious body, like a fucking parasite, filth, a simple fly on the wall.
With a few steps, the creature approached Jimin, leaving your warm body on his lap. Your eyelids throbbed softly regardless of how the demon destroyed your pussy with every crash of his hips.
Your lips were wet with foreign blood, wet hair stuck to your temples, and open hands that fell to each side of the furniture.
You looked like the girl he had that morning when he showed you the cabin, like the one from the first night when you two made love on the living room rug, like the one that bathed naked in the lake even though someone could see her.
A nymph, just a beautiful wildflower.
And Jimin knew at that moment why that beast had you in his claws, why he grabbed you by the neck and squeezed you to wake up from your sweet dream.
When you looked up and saw your husband's face, Jimin knew that he had to give up, because that thousand-yard look was a path that was forbidden to him, that he did not know and could not learn.
You were no longer his but from the forest. A red and grotesque fairy, who moaned instead of singing and collected bones instead of flowers.
And yet you were more beautiful than ever.
You smiled at Jimin and your hands moved down his face to remove the dish towel and kiss him like you've never done before. The sulfuric smell of a dead animal on your soft lips was enchanting.
"Oh, God, yes." You whispered in your sleepy voice.
The Beast bruised your hips until pumping your pussy with cum, thick and gray.
You and Jimin looked at the growling monster, picking up pieces of the wooden floor with its long nails. They looked up, and exhaled deeply, snorting like an angry bull seeking respect.
Before you could say anything, he was gone. Leaving your bruised body between your tied husband's legs.
Your fingers brushed your face as you felt something damp: the tears in Jimin's eyes flowed like summer rain, thick and abundant.
"Tell your mom you'll find a better girl, okay?" Your lips trembled, trying to dry each drop from which another came out. Jimin nodded, bringing your forehead to his.
"Am I really not going to see you anymore?"
"Any time you want," you assured, your voice echoing a dozen times like whispers spreading across the room. A choir of hushed angels saying the same thing over and over again.
"Every time it rains, leave the door open, and I'll know you need me."
Your naked body turned to place Jimin's head on your chest, he sobbed himself to sleep, and you counted his eyelashes until it was time to leave.
With a kiss on his forehead, you let him sleep, when he woke up you were no longer there, the green coat was hanging in the back yard and the smell of your hair filled every corner, a floral ghost.
Podría decirse que estamos justo en el tiempo de "la noche de los cuchillos largos", quién sabe los tiempos que corren, sabrán cual es la referencia.
Llevamos la experiencia suficiente para aprender y ahora enseñar acerca del tiempo adverso que atravesamos como humanidad.
Nada sucedido antes ni la mejor imaginación hubiera creado este tiempo que vivimos hoy.
Siempre discutimos de lideres que hicieron lo peor en el tiempo que vivieron, recordamos tristemente la historia de las peores masacres de la historia, los eventos del pasado que cubrieron la humanidad de sangre, dolor y lágrimas.
Hubo un tiempo que la humanidad se prometió la no repetición de los errores del pasado; condenamos a quienes produjeron muerte, suplicio y tortura a hombres que pensaban diferentes, sus mujeres y sus hijos, y con ello arrasadas sus pertenencias, sus logros y sus historias de vida.
Pero nunca se aprende. Nunca.
Siempre se repite lo mismo. De alguna manera vemos venir la violencia, el crimen, la mentira, la extorsión y la astucia de abusar, abandonar y pretender huir de la mano de una justicia humana errática e insuficiente.
Ustedes, nosotros, los nuestros hoy, están de cara a esa historia, ahora es el momento de defender lo que somos, lo que hemos construido a costa de esfuerzo, sacrificio, tiempo y disciplina, para conseguir lo que somos, seres pensantes, críticos, metódicos, educadores, doctores, madres y padres de una generación necesitada de la verdadera educación, el difícil arte de adquirir facultades para ponerlas al servicio de los demás.
No basta con enseñar lo que sabemos, nunca es suficiente demostrar lo que somos. Continuamente se nos pedirán respuestas a cosas que sabemos, incluso a veces tenemos que especular de cosas que no sabemos, sólo guiados por señales.
Es el motivo por el cual hemos creado esta comunidad, una familia que persigue los mismos fines con los medios más legítimos posibles.
A pesar que nos traten de lo que no somos, nos acusen, nos persigan o nos censuren.
Estamos en un periodo de grandes dificultades y necesidades, pero ahora es tiempo de dejar de fingir, es tiempo de afilar el cuchillo de la verdad que duele, porque el filo de la espada, cuchillo o puñal debe separar el engaño que complace de la verdad que incomoda.
Ninguno conoce la realidad de su prójimo a menos que se la cuenten. Pero imaginamos siempre que los demás están mejor que uno, porque no se quejan.
Por eso que en este periodo de la historia de los cuchillos largos, necesitamos que nuestra espada esté lista, debemos mantener nuestra idea, nuestro pensamiento y nuestra creencia acerca de lo que hemos visto, de lo que hemos escuchado y compartido con aquellos que comparten nuestras preocupaciones presentes y proyectos futuros.
Una reconocida escritora ha resumido este tiempo, como una guerra donde no se ha disparado una sola bala, ni se ha movilizado ni una sola tropa, pero mediante los medios de comunicación han dominado, atemorizado e influenciado a la población. Todo ello sólo con el método del miedo.
Y vaya que ha dado resultado !
Pues estos saben que con una mente sumisa pueden lograr millones de vidas pobres, enfermas e ignorantes.
Así logran destruir tan fácilmente una generación completa sin ninguna resistencia.
“La encarnación de las flores” Así te llamaría, pero al viento que nos encuentra le corresponde un atardecer que se esconde en tus manos, entonces te pierdes, y no vuelvo a encontrarte. ¿A dónde fuiste? Seguro que a donde van a parar los barquitos de papel que hacíamos cuando éramos niños. Pero aún más importante, ¿hacia dónde voy yo ahora? Quizás debería de forzar tus delicadas manos, liberar el paisaje que tanto deseo disfrutar junto a ti, pero sé, que tú ya no quieres tener más caminatas conmigo. Tal vez debería solo limitarme a seguir tu sombra, como siempre, como el perro faldero que soy. – Ah, ya no puedo con esto – digo apenas, hasta mis labios pesan últimamente; Últimamente hasta tengo el mismo sueño, en donde no soy mas que un muñeco de trapo que arrastra un baúl lleno de sueños frustrados donde tú eres la protagonista. Camino sin fin, atado a las cadenas de la lujuria por un bosque árido sin la esperanza de hallar un futuro prometedor. – ah, debería dejar de escuchar música mientras intento dormir sin ti… –.
Ahora bien, mientras admiro como subes a ese vagón de metro repleto de gente observando sus teléfonos, un escalofrío recorre por todo mi cuerpo. Estaba harto de no poder ser notado, harto de no poder expresarte cuanto quiero hacer barquitos de papel contigo, por estar aterrado de pies a cabeza. Las emociones que provocas en mi mente son tantas que siento como mi cráneo sucumbe ante la presión, va a explotar. – Estoy harto de ti… – me decía a mi mismo mientras las causalidades volvían a encaminarme hacia tu nombre una y otra vez.
Vuelvo a darle vueltas al asunto, a como siempre te escribo, y visto las heridas del cielo con pequeñas estrellas que te dediqué a ti. ¿Tal vez te has escondido allí? No lo sé. Las multitudes son despiadadas. Podrías estar frente a mí y convertirte en el camino que sé que no tomaré, un cielo nocturno que no me corresponde, pero es difícil saberlo, siempre es difícil. Entonces vuelvo a mirar la hora; – Siete y media… dale… 20 minutos más… -, luego guardo mi celular, y levanto la cabeza hacia las abarrotadas puertas del metro que se abren frente a mí, quizás hoy tendría suerte. Bueno, creo que en realidad no. Una multitud de gente sale de las puertas y debo luchar por poder entrar, la atmosfera pesada me envuelve y me hace anhelar tu aroma a shampoo de coco. Todos parecen cansados, exhaustos, igual que yo; Aunque creo que mis lamentos amorosos no son un buen pretexto para definirme de esa manera, como sea – ¡ESTOY EXAHUSTO! – Sin darme cuenta había gritado lo que pensaba. Se sentía tan bien, pero a la vez estaba tan avergonzado que deseaba ser tragado por el suelo del vagón. Aunque si lo pensaba bien, nadie había prestado atención a la liberación de mis sentimientos, pase desapercibido – supongo que un vagón de metro puede ser indiferente a la gente extraña…hoy soy un extraño… –.
Las puertas se habían cerrado y el metro entro en marcha. Había un asiento vacío y me quedaba algo de Coca-Cola. Un golpe de suerte sin duda alguna, bueno, esperaba que esta vez si lo fuera; Pero de nuevo mi naturaleza de ser yeta me jugo en contra. La Cola-Cola estaba caliente y un solo sorbo era como estar bebiendo alquitrán, se quedaba en mi garganta por un rato y dejaba un sabor horrible impregnado – Que asco… – dije apenas, mi garganta creo que se había dañ- “¡BAAM!” un disparo suena y siento como alguien se desploma junto a mí. La mujer que hace unos minutos enviaba memes por WhatsApp se volvió un saco de carne y sangre que teñía de carmesí todo mi hombro. Supongo que a veces la suerte si nos puede abandonar a todos.
“Así, dejé de aferrarme a la realidad, y el mundo me volvió a abandonar.” Aquella oración se repetía en mi mente, no paraba de sonar en diferentes tonos, inundando mi cabeza. Pero la oración desapareció cuando me puse a observar el cuerpo de aquella mujer. Tenía un aroma irreal, cárnico y sensual. Sus vísceras descompuestas rebozaban de gusanos pálidos que bailaban como estrellas en un cielo moribundo. También, parecía cantar su sufrimiento de la misma forma que los ángeles cantan a la vida, o yo a tu recuerdo, mientras su rostro podrido desprendía trozos de carne renegrida, como una flor que dejaba caer sus pétalos sobre mi invierno. A mis ojos, era hermosa. Me detuve a tocar su pecho corrompido, , y encontré, detrás de miles de mentiras, un corazón, entonces lo arranqué, y lo colgué en mis sueños. Estaba dispuesto a dejarlo todo atrás, abandonar mi cordura y envolverme en la locura que nacía en aquel vagón de metro. Pero aquel corazón comenzó a latir, aquel latido, tímido y tan confortable, me recordó la única espina que perturbaba mis sueños, la única que no quería abandonar, tú.
– ¿seré capaz de olvidarte a ti, de dejarte atrás ? – La pregunta se incrustaba en mi cerebro, como una bala perdida encuentra a un inocente. Sim embargo, no tarde mucho en volver a prestarle atención a la escena del crimen. Ya que, frente a mí, un demonio que tenía esmeraldas por ojos se acercaba lentamente. En un tono que no podía describir, estaba aterrado, me murmuraba – ¿anhelas la muerte, lo haces tanto como yo? –. No entendía que ocurría, el aroma metálico que desprendía la sangre me mantenía en un trance extraño, mis sentidos estaban perturbados, como si estuviera drogado, dejándome llevar por los leves latidos del corazón en mi mano, que, de manera insólita, era lo único que me mantenía cuerdo. Colgado a mis sueños, me hacía no querer renunciar mi humanidad. –¿anhelas la muerte? – Volvía a escabullirse entre mis pensamientos aquella pregunta, ya ni siquiera podía escuchar el grito de la gente aterrada en el vagón.
– ¿muerte…? – digo para mí; – está mal buscar en la muerte los significados que no hay en mi vida; Pero entonces…si no encuentro un significado en mi vida, ¿me convertiré en un monstruo? Como si…es casi…fingir ser humano – . Las voces bajo mi piel lo sabían, mis ojos, mi boca, mi nariz. Yo mismo lo sabía. – Tú eres el único significado que le da sentido a los delgados hilos que unen mi mundo, mi entorno se distorsiona…es tan patético ser dependiente de una estrella, estás tan lejos…mis manos fueron desprendidas de tu fantasma y el mío es demasiado débil para mantenerme a flote…morir no soluciona nada, no anhelo desaparecer… – susurraba para mí. El demonio sujetó mis manos de manera brusca y guio mi mirada hasta encontrarme con la suya. Sus ojos eran como un abismo, sentía que me iba a tragar y que jamás volvería a verte, hasta en mis últimos momentos me obligas a rendirte tributo. – te odio, te odio, te odio tanto – Mi voz estaba rota, mis manos se liberaron y el demonio cayó hacia atrás, entre sollozos. Mi vista se había dañado, ya no sabia quien estaba en el suelo del vagón, si un demonio de ojos esmerarla o la chica que me enamoraba con su llanto.
Cerré mis ojos y respiré profundo. El metro seguía avanzando, a nadie le importaba la chica que ya no estaba allí. Mi cuerpo gritaba por ayuda, mis manos temblaban. Podía ver el reflejo de mi cara en las ventanas del metro, llorando con un hombro lleno de sangre y un corazón que me guiaba hacia la locura. – ya es hora... – Un carabinero me sujeta el hombro con fuerza y vuelvo a ser jalado hacia atrás, hacia el abismo. Con los ojos entrecerrados, espiando la grotesca escena. mi vida ya no tiene sentido, ya no quiero pensar en cómo no me ves de la manera que quiero; ya no quiero ser la persona que está ahí simplemente porque te da pena abandonarla; ya no quiero arrepentirme, quiero ser aquel que posea un sueño, quiero ser aquel que te posea a ti.
“realmente fue un error…” una nueva oración toma asiento en mi mente. Hay flores afuera. Pequeñas gotas lagrimean de sus hojas, y los pájaros tímidos se acercan a nuestro cielo. El mundo ahí fuera es el mismo. La gente es la misma. Mis miedos son los mismos. Entonces, ¿Por qué es tan difícil?
Sigo el camino que me ordena el carabinero, distraído, contando las baldosas del piso hasta que una voz me encuentra. Hago oídos sordos, no quiero ser visto en tan lamentable situación, pero ya es demasiado tarde - ¿Puedo preguntar a qué viene esto, te vas preso? –. Era Juancho, un viejo amigo mío. De alguna forma no me sentía capaz de decirle, no me sentía lo suficientemente fuerte para enfrentarlo, por lo que solo guardé silencio. – Oye po’… - me dice en un tono más agresivo. No soy de los que hablan de sus cosas, así que solo lo ignoro, y el suspira diciendo – Ya… no me digai’. Igual yo encuentro que deberiai’ dejar de hacer eso. Si lo haci esperando encontrar a alguien, mejor olvídate, la ciudad es despiadada, y a los que se traga no los devuelve más -.
“La ciudad es despiadada”. Del suelo emergieron deformes imitaciones humanas y el mundo volvía empezar, devorando todo lo que conocía. . huyo hacia el vagón del metro que se acaba de detener y me arrastro desganado a un asiento vacío. La monotonía en el traqueteo del metro, el bailar de las luces tras las ventanas, las luces fugaces que aparecen por la ventana a ratos. Quiero olvidar, imaginar que Juancho no fue devorado junto a aquel carabinero. Pensar en ti me calmaba, en tu reflejo similar a un copo de nieve; pálido, frágil, diferente, algo que solo puedes ver en invierno porque se derrite en verano. El fin del verano se acercaba. Una gota de esperanza, otra vez tú era mi única gota de esperanza – ¿Por qué…? –. Ya no puedo ver las luces. Mi reflejo invade la oscura ventana, con mi cara demacrada. – te perdí, perdí a mi amigo, perdí mi cordura…¿Por qué no estoy llorando? ¿Por qué sigo tan calmado? -. Mi reflejo se distorsiona y toma su lugar aquel demonio, con sus ojos clavados en mí. - ¿la deseas tanto como yo? Morir, claro -. Me daba nauseas, lo odiaba, lo odiaba tanto que la ventana exploto en miles de pedazos, cortando mi cara junto con la de la gente perdida en su propia discordia, dejando un agujero oscuro sin luces que se colaran para calmarme. Me absorbió. Mientras caía podía ver como se alejaba la ventana del metro, visto desde afuera si poseía luz, una que había abandonado. Así es el mundo del otro lado, o así lo era para mí. El punto final se encontraba al final de la caída, pero siempre se hace más difícil llegar al fondo, ¿Por qué?
–Las flores están bonitas – sonaba entre los ecos de los cristales cayendo detrás de mí; - Aunque, siempre he creído que los Girasoles guardan cierto encanto secreto -.
No hay final, no hay caída, no hay golpe, solo una voz que me encuentra, y sigue hablando –Tienes razón…no lo había visto así…aunque lo pienso todavía. No sé, de niña pensaba que los girasoles eran igual que las estrellas, y que los pájaros tenían casas de nubes, y plantaban esas luces en sus jardines… je… es bastante tonto decirlo en voz alta –.
La sangre es densa, y mis oídos se retuercen por un dolor ajeno. El tiempo se detiene, la gente deja de respirar, y solo estoy yo frente a dos estrellas fugaces que te roban lejos de mí. Todo es nada, no es oscuro ni blanco. No es silencioso ni ruidoso. Es la nada. El olor de mi sangre ya no existe, no puedo sentir las yemas de mis dedos entrar en contacto con algún fondo. ¿había caído o seguía cayendo?
ya no podía escucharte. Finalmente, ya no podía escucharte, ya no puedes atormentarme. Has desaparecido, has desaparecido junto con mis ganas de soñar, mis ganas de disfrutar el olor del pasto en las mañanas, mis ganas de pensar en que tema de conversación usar cuando nos quedemos solos. – quiero una tumba llena de girasoles…extraño a mi hámster…–. Soy un estúpido y finalmente me rendí.
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