Chapter 1

Chapter 1



You write a lot, he said.

By that time, he did not know what had happened with him along all those years. He did not know the places where he had been, lost; the languages he had forgotten, and those he had not learned; the women that kept his hopes, and those he had not loved; the friends he had not visit, and therefore had disappeared; the wasted time scrolling people he never got to know down and up…

As it is supposed, it started with isolation. The uncomfortable feeling of being alone. Nevertheless, in some sense, he had created those situations. The suffering needed for evolving was his most intimate creation. Full of pain, full of hopes. Depending on the audience, depending on the artist, depending on the piece of art, depending on the critics, depending on the art itself. It was what it was. Willingly. The present moment transformed in the uneasiness of a foreigner who miss their home, if there was any.

He had lost too many parts of himself along the way. So many frustrated relationships that he still remembered, stuck to his brain, stolen from his soul. Along with all the things he has taken, he had lost what he had given. Soaked in tears or blown in the wind, memories had eventually disappeared. Throughout suffering, he was being reduced to his core, to his nothingness, to his emptiness. He had started so many notebooks in the wrong way. Maintaining an unsubstantial brightness, he supposed that once he found himself reading these words he could grasp the peace he had sought so long. Once he found himself reading this word…

Then he stopped. At that moment, he sipped the tea. Slowly, calmly, savoring the presence of the room, breathing the essence of life. Why did their thoughts have to invade these moments? Why couldn’t the peace last forever? It had happened again.

He turned on the laptop searching for answers. Impatiently, he waited looking a bug flying among the lost seconds of his desk. The speed of technology would never be enough for the unsatisfied human brain. Without any particular reason, looking to that bug he remember that day. The day he met her.

She was just doing it for love. Sometimes she liked to stare at people who were waiting. What do people do when they do not have anything else to do? The expressive faces and grimaces reflecting their inner fights; the self-grooming behaviors as attempts in search of lost time. She used to encounter the most creative people while scrutinizing their spare time. It seemed to her that repressed artist disclosure their best works without being aware. Interestingly, creations that appear conscientiously usually end unpublished. As it was her case.

She could have written more. However, she used paper in a personal way. The silky blankness of new sheets was her favorite way of procrastination. Hours of thoughts were missing in exchange of the pleasurable feeling of seeing her fingers dance smoothly over the satin cellulose.

Anyhow, she loved those waiters. That is how she liked to call them. She also loved curious words. Why the waiters are called waiters when actually are clients those who complain for being waiting? Waiting for the waiters… It may not have sense, but she always lost her attention with these kind of thoughts.

Thinking about attention, he remember he was waiting for the laptop to light up. Where was now the unbeatable human brain? He typed the password and wait again while the screen was loading. Now, it was the blackness of the screen what leaded him to the subsequent thought.

He recalled her complaining about how people had stopped waiting. Her loved waiters had become watchers. They had stopped creating to gaze uninterruptedly at a black mirror. People were sinking in their own reflect. The unavoidable narcissism that, as was later demonstrated and against all the forecasting, would lead humankind to its vital awakening. Regardless the height of the fall, the brain knows how to finish the nightmare just moments before crashing against the concrete.

She became mad at it, and for boosting her mood, she usually went to hostels in order to see strangers sleep. That was her second hobby. That way, she managed to avoid the guilty feelings experienced when gawking hard-workers. By listening the moans and wails of the room she could guess if someone would have to wash their underpants the next morning. She had become expert in inner conversations. After hundreds of unexpected encounters in the dark, and through conscientious and delicate practice, she was able then to maintain profound dialogues with somnambulist and dream talkers. Again, words. Sometimes arbitrary, sometimes not. Whatever the case, she decided what to do with her time. Time is a personal decision. Waiting is just an option. Dream is another, although it requires sleep.

He recovered his mind and looked at the screen, now colorful and full of possibilities. Maybe, too many possibilities.

Through his pupils, the LCD was draining his brain. The basic question remained in his head, what was he looking for? Was it himself? Was how to maintain endurable and fruitful relationships? Was how to kill the bugs of his room? Were techniques to not to lose his attention? Whatever it was, his fingers opened Facebook. He saw his profile photo; he saw his friends’ pictures; he read the tale of a guy in India that killed flies with a tennis racket as if it was a taser, there was even an accompanying video. If it weren’t because he had already forgotten about what was he looking for, Facebook could have become the most effective tool.

Another hour gone, fortunately this time without pain, this time without feeling. After bombing his mind with stimulation, his memory just retained the video of the dying flies and that photo, taken five long years ago. He wrote down in the “To Buy List” “Taser”. He took the coat, opened the door and went to the street. He would take the bike; the last experience with the public transport could not be considered as very encouraging.

That aging picture had become another burden on his heart. He had not decided to see it. As it had faded away, it had just appeared on the screen. Unfortunately, it still remained in his mind. He had neither possibilities, nor freedom of election. He was imposed to watch what other people want him to watch. The printed copy of the picture awaited in his shoe box, hidden for five years now.

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