VOL I

Vol I - Blossom, it's the season

No one has ever seen a rose bloom from the seeds of my heart, no one has ever heard the tumult of my screams in the silence of an empty room isolated from the cartoons of the move. No one ever told me 'You look a little like a poet' for no one, not even I, has seen anything special in me. Only you replied 'I feel the same' to a letter that began with 'in a future where we will probably never talk again'. And now in the kindergarten on the corner everyone knows me as 'the artist'' for your good soul, clear as the sky. That soul that although transparent enough to be able to mirror me is black as a chimney when I stare back into it. 

Did I not smile enough? Am I too full of hate to be loved?

Yet every piece I produce is a politic revolution yet without an defence and offence, a statement without trenches. 

Isn't it weird to write the prologue at the end of the book, isn't it strange to retrace your steps like a pilgrim returning in the subway? 

Last night I dreamed, and I was afraid of never waking up. I was in a room with the sun beating delicately between the window bars. On it were withered flowers and piles of rolled-up clothing. The clock on the wall was still, it was the chopsticks in a bowl of ramen on the floor that were counting the time. My mother was downstairs between steaming pans in the cold of the small kitchen in the company of some resident of the condominium who helped to go up the shopping.  

Such was still at the entrance next to the door.

I saw it clearly as the fumes rising from the ashtray choked me. I was locked up in my bed, embraced by thick blankets that melted my wings. I couldn't move or fly.  

I was in a nightmare not being able to take refuge in a dream to sweeten it. I sucked into myself turning between the blankets that looked like a trench of mud, so much so that they muffled the movements and screams. I broke my back trying to bask in fetal position hugging my tired legs.

I was in my bed, but I wasn't sleeping, I was looking. I had my glasses on my nose that stuck into the flesh. I took them off and admired the workmanship, that glass that, like a window, allowed me to observe the world and be understood. I caressed them between my thumbs and pushed the splints over my pupils. I did it slowly, taking the time no one has ever given me to talk, and pushed deeper. I felt my irises dissipate, blood dripping on my lips from which I took the taste of sweet honey. 

I didn't see, and soon I stopped feeling pain. 

I pushed as if those sticks were thorny roses and made my mind see, fumbling in blood and sweat. I was screaming in despair but the blankets were suffocating me, impeding my movements. The broken back formed new wings with the bones now exposed, but they drowned in blood, dying in the darkness of that locked room.