Grey morning, fogged up glass. On the cold, damp floor lie the corpses impregnated with mixed aromas, and a discarded bed, a bare torso and the vestiges of last night, the memories. Memories that you love but can't erase. A paper, a pen and a doubt. The doubt that eats away and destroys desperate souls who want to cry out, shout a drowned cry, with dry tears and the emptiness that is felt even when they are full. Full of anguish.
You can see through the glass the drops that, in spite of their anger, bring calm, and jealously to heaven that they allow themselves to vent their sorrows, they try to untangle with the little force that remains, the twisted thoughts that slide like a pac-man over their heads and eat away the energy that is exhausted. The one I had first of all, first of all. Before we start building those memories.
Almost unintentionally, the moments of joy are falling into a domino effect and fogging up like the cold glass that is before your eyes. That glass that is still tarnished by the heat of the bodies that crashed the night before, perhaps unintentionally, perhaps by mistake, perhaps just because it had to happen. And so the ghosts of the past return again to take over the will and dictate the letters, words and phrases that can no longer be silenced.
A paper and a pen that instead of ink looks like a rubber eraser and tries to erase all memories, writing down phrases that are a little sincere and a little harmful, because resentment and hatred help to cover up that pain so deep that it doesn't let you breathe, or so they say.
First of all, first of all, surrendering he closed his eyes. And so it all began, unintentionally, without thinking. He gave himself up to that dream that was painted on him that time. A mural of plans and stories still without images that they promised to complete together with enthusiasm and lots of laughter. But one day he opened his eyes, opened his eyes and saw the mural, the one they had painted for him. It was full of images and stories that were not what they had imagined. The mural was cracked, cracked, as if every argument and every fight had been a hammer blow and all that was missing was the blow of the wolf to fall apart, weak as a straw hut. And that day he understood everything, he understood what he was not, what he never was and what he would never be. He understood everything but did not know that when the wall where he recorded his story as a photo album broke, all the rubble he was going to stumble upon again and again would be left behind.
When he saw it that night, I never imagined it would be the end. That night when he stumbled again, as usual.
He saw from the end of the road illuminated with shadows from the past that he had left the last debris behind. With his deep pain he ended up turning over all the thoughts he untwisting that night on the sheet and left it with the pen by the bedside. She saw in the window that the sky had stopped crying and was relieved. She gathered her clothes and her things scattered all over the room. He turned off the light by taking from it all the energy that had been wasted and taking away the expectations that he had once left behind in that house and shut the door.
