The bus stop

Her mind was racing. She used to see him there, sitting down calmly while talking on his cellphone; always wearing a brown fedora and occasionally caressing its side as if the tactile connection was necessary to keep him in this world, at this moment.

A pair of tired feet guided her to the familiar bus stop, a three button blue coat keeping her warm, and her heart beating slightly faster than normal… He was there, and again, they shared a glance. One throat swallowed making an audible sound, and it echoed to the place and time the writer of the story is currently at.

It was a cold late afternoon, one of those who remind you of recycled paper instead of orange and pink cotton candy. The tiny roof was leaking rain drops that accumulated up there not too long ago, and as they fell down they were serving as part of the soundtrack of silence clashing against the carved concrete tiles, along with the noisy engines kept inside the multicolored passenger vehicles.

One minute, seven months, or an eternity went by. Making her way through the crowd, a last bus of the line 27 was taken by her. He left right after that.

And it was not because he waited for her every day, it was not to see her come and to watch her go. It was not because he was struggling for courage to start a conversation with her. It was not for a certainty, that was only building inside her… No. The trip back home took him there every day, at the same hour as hers, and he had a bus to take.

And time, eventually, said it best.

Life

Such a vivid thing; so true to the place where hopes and feelings belong. What had been said, I shared with her on one of those nights that are split in two, both in time and space. She said she never dreamed, I swear to you she did. And so I dreamed for me, for her, and for a thousand more human beings.

Now we are once again fools of what it seems but is not. Write to me no more, I do not crave for your words. True as the line before, I do not wish for your voice.

She is called by many names, and one of them is life… You, life, simply don’t know how much mine you are.

She hurts me deep, a kiss followed by a slap on my cheek. I’m afraid that of her, I’ll never have enough. I’m afraid that of her, I’ll soon have enough.

Oh sweet life of mine, for a love eternalized now, don’t leave my side. We’ll find some peace, an opened space by crafty tools, between your stone wall and mine.

I ran out of words

Lately, it’s been harder for me to write a couple of paragraphs for my blog. I enter lifeandwonderland in the username space, followed by the password in the space below, and then I press the Enter key… I read posts (that takes a while), and later I go to the dashboard (you, wordpress bloggers, know what I’m talking about). Being there, I stare at the tiny statistics bars for a second, and then, with my fingers properly positioned for a fluid typing experience, I intend to write… and it all stays in intention.

I ran out of words; they are all staying inside me again, dangerously building up… It becomes a complicated quest when you run out of words.

Sonnets went away with my struggle for a wider perspective, along with the absence of phantoms that haunt me on the places where the walls of the house I grew up in get together forming a corner. And perspective folds itself back, forming a lemniscate, with only one evident side to the pen.

Aware of the fact that I might sound like a person with a measurable level of lack of sanity, I say: What a case of “that isn’t chocolate flavored… it is coffee savored”! I do not like the taste of coffee.

Going back to the post… I recall a thought of mine: When something is very important, it feels eternal, building the sin of qualifying itself with forever. The corollary, which one is it?

Geranios

Un primer día de abril que inicié como siento que lo he hecho desde siempre, buscándolo. Sin éxito.

Monotonía de vida hogareña en la mañana, con sus malentendidos, mal genios, celebraciones de cosas no célebres, y desconocidos que se conocen y quieren hace años.

Todo cambia en una tarde perfecta con mis abuelos, curando heridas a mi nombre entre mangos verdes, lecturas con brisa en el rostro, culantro y frijoles rojos. Quién nos viera… tres cabecillas (dos de ellas canosas) absortas en un diálogo –que es prueba irrefutable de que la teoría de la relatividad de Einstein es de alguna forma cierta– lleno de cuentos en tiempo lejanos y de reflexiones de lo que fue y lo que no fue. Aventuras y desventuras en otra época que pinta su lejanía en pieles suaves y arrugaditas que adoraré por siempre.

Dos vidas que nunca fueron perfectas, que tuvieron que superar obstáculos que muchos ni imaginan puedan existir. Dos personas que se encontraron teniendo en común únicamente un amor que fue creciendo hasta el día de hoy, por más de sesenta años. Dos corazones a quienes debo tanto, mis ejemplos a seguir y mis apoyos en muchos momentos. Los amo.

No tuve otra opción que volver a casa llena de recuerdos de sonrisas, llena de ilusiones (que aún no sé si serán celestiales o infernales) y esperanza; además de reservas de energía  –de esa invisible y que se siente como cerquita del alma– cargadas para toda la semana.

Ha sido un buen día. Sólo que… lo extrañé –sí, a usted–, y aún lo extraño.

River flow

Another altitude variation trusted on the river bed… And you don’t know, river flow, how it was that you went from cold dense forests to less greenish and vast savannas, making it seem as if life happened between changes of scenery like in a rushed theater play; beautiful it all. You no longer know where you came from, nor do you know where you will go. Meanwhile, minutes and their kamikaze strategy forever come and go.

Do not stop now, river flow; keep the current on the go. You are fed up with disappointment, but never stop. Nature works with cycles: sunset or dawn; die, live or be born; spring, autumn, summer or winter; and beyond. Bear it all hence tears and soft giggly sounds are part of your very nature; learn and grow.

Feel the ground, grass and stone; look at the changing sky. Below and above, while a tear trace is erased from the track of time. There is still so much to see ahead, where the river cause leads the course. Expectant, dream with hope, believe fate guides everything outside the minds and hearts of the forest’s wolves.

Celebrate. It is all abstract. Didn’t you know?