🇪🇸|🇬🇧 • Todos mis yo que no eran yo | Cuento • All my selves that weren't me | Story
A veces creo que me entrenaron sin darme cuenta.
Que desde pequeñito fui aprendiendo qué decir, cómo sonreÃr, cuándo hacerme el gracioso o cuándo quedarme callado para no incomodar. Y sin saber bien cómo, empecé a coleccionar actitudes, gestos, versiones de mà que solo existÃan para caer bien, para que nadie se alejara, para que me quisieran.
Con el tiempo esos gestos se fueron volviendo máscaras, en realidad trajes completos de payasos.
Cada vez que hacÃa un chiste cuando por dentro me estaba rompiendo, nacÃa uno. Cada vez que decÃa no pasa nada con la garganta apretada, aparecÃa otro. Todos distintos, pero con algo en común, no eran yo, eran lo que a los demás le gustaba de mÃ.
Y los fui guardando, uno detrás de otro, allà están adentro de mi, sentados en silencio. Algunos con narices enormes, otros con sonrisas dibujadas hasta las orejas, uno tiene la cara pintada de calma. otro de entusiasmo, hasta hay uno con mirada triste pero siempre dispuesto a animar el momento.
Están allÃ, listos para actuar cada vez que alguien lo necesita y yo no me atrevo a no dejarlos salir.
Lo peor es que ya no sé cómo olvidarlos, a veces quiero llorar y no puedo, quiero decir que estoy harto y me sale una broma, quiero pedir ayuda y lo que sale es otro maldito payaso saludando con la mano, haciendo alguna mofa y fingiendo que todo está bien.
Supongo que en eso me he convertido, en un almacenamiento de payasos muertos, en un sistema de actitudes que me sirvieron para gustar, pero que ya no me dejan existir.
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🇬🇧 English Version
Sometimes I think I was trained without realizing it.
That from a young age I was learning what to say, how to smile, when to be funny or when to stay quiet so as not to bother others. And without really knowing how, I began to collect attitudes, gestures, versions of myself that existed only to be liked, so no one would leave me alone, so people would love me.
Over time, those gestures became masks, actually full clown suits.
Every time I made a joke when I was breaking down inside, one was born. Every time I said "It's okay" with my throat tight, another appeared. They were all different, but they had one thing in common: they weren't me, they were what other people liked about me.
And I kept them, one after the other. There they are inside me, sitting silently. Some with huge noses, others with smiles drawn all the way to their ears. One has a calm face, another with enthusiasm, and there's even one with a sad look, but always ready to liven up the moment.
They're there, ready to act whenever someone needs them, and I don't dare not let them out.
The worst thing is that I don't know how to forget them anymore. Sometimes I want to cry and I can't. I want to say I'm fed up and a joke comes out, I want to ask for help and what comes out is another damn clown waving his hand, making some joke, and pretending everything is okay.
I guess that's what I've become, a storage facility for dead clowns, a system of attitudes that served to make me likeable, but that no longer allow me to exist.
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I invite: