Shot of snow
Research and freedom of expression
Reflection for whoever finds it
I can not sleep, the clock sketches an interminable 4 in the morning that haunts me from the moment I ended up in bed with Patricia, a lady who earns her bread in the street selling incarnate promises to the men who pass by.
The night finds me huddled in a corner, hidden among the sheets. An abominable cold creeps through the grooves of the wooden door and loneliness embraces me until I cut my breath, I could not help it.
Voices in my head flow and coexist representing a Kafkaesque drama, whose end I can not foresee, will it be that I'm going crazy?
There is a white seagull on the window frame, it reminds me that I am far from home, but on land, safe.
A half empty bottle of whiskey on the wooden table keeps a hidden but valuable message inside; Once I was a happy young man and willing to sail the tempestuous seas of life. Today I can barely stand in front of the mirror if it is not with the help of a bottle that distorts even more the disfigured expression that I have managed to chisel over my face after years and years of practice.
I still remember my mother's smile on Sundays at lunchtime, her blue eyes reach me like a ray of light momentarily removing this terrible darkness that looms over me. It was beautiful, I whispered a story and I rocked between his delicate arms to make me sleep.
However, for some time now I have not received letters, for a long time no one has given me a few words to find warmth, some time ago I began to find comfort in the banal advice of women like Patricia, Inés or Jacinta. For some time now I have only tried the hidden messages behind the bottle corks that send me from deserted islands that I do not even know.
A drop of cold sweat slips on my back and breaks my spine in two. It's only 4:12.
Anonymous fisherman.