Thoughts · August 21, 2021



Andy, 21, thin as he has never been, his food is not meat, praiseworthy of holding back the strength he has over the weakest. He has no beard, his body features the scars he chose to have. His cell phone rings all the time, messages and calls, sometimes he answers, hoarse voices on both sides. He hates the phone, but he seems to like the voices that cross the line. Messages, he doesn’t answer them but smiles mutely when he receives them.

During the week he works like a madman, at dawn he makes a closet for books, on weekends he lives with alcohol, he sleeps little, but when he sleeps he dreams it all.  Andy sits down on his sofa, little comfortable, whenever he arrives from anywhere, turns on the radio and soon his cat would come, “nego”, to propose caresses, he lies down, both close their eyes.

 With the creak of the door, one enters and leaves unrestrained, loud music outside, jazz inside the soul slapped in tears, Andy, wakes up late and starts each day the sameness that has been proposed in others.  When he’s not worried about trying, he succeeds.  The reunion itself starts when he finds a carrot cake waiting for him, he uses people until he can get a blessed carrot cake out of them, he wants to taste the best syrup until he gets sick and looks for another one.

In the street, Andy smiles, is solicitous, different from his morning bad mood. He likes talking to strangers, doesn’t want to know names, he just wants to steal words from them, his dream was to be born a book. He is composed daily in loose words, as he thinks he will never be able to be a book, he proposes to himself every day to be at least a poem for someone, even if he is sad, he wants to be a word, comma and conjugated verb, singular he only does it when he is alone with you. He has not learned to write to others or for what he has, he fantasizes about realities and once again he does it in a dream.

His house is anywhere, a piece of ground designed with a building block, the square that lives next to any place, the bar table, he stops, analyzes — barely analyzes, and lives.  He stays anywhere for days, hours and everything is comfortable for someone who, at first, just smiles.

Everything turns to hell when they take over their spaces, suffocated, looking for air in a window overlooking a wall, he wants to die, he tries to love, he hates not being in control, remembers the days when teeth pierce his skin and feel helpless for not wanting to react. There are people he wants to hurt, he wants to see the pain, this is his pleasure of the moment, there are others who run away, these are the ones he intended to protect, he can’t, he crowns himself, he knows how to wait for the time the full moon would return.

Uncertainties roam his voids, he likes to walk with the freedom of a cat, he jumps the highest walls, he is treacherous to himself, he falls into traps he made for rats, he gets hurt and remembers;  “I still have seven more lives around here.” His lives are multiplied, his insignia is due to it, he is able to get away with it.

Note: Nowadays, Andy, who is 33 years old, remains almost the same as that chronicle, he is a great supporter of my writing and that’s why I decided to start with this chronicle.