Most of the time

The colours overcome the balance situation and it's not just that can't admit more substance to dissolve, but are now unrecognizable. These are spots swarming around the fire, climbing through the chimney and disappearing in the fog.

The lights are blinking trying to invent new forms to draw attention and plant a stake between the eyelid and the cornea. These are a succession of waves as swords crossing the iris allied with the particles that bomb the retina.

The swarm of noises are getting closer to the eardrum and keep its vibrato. These are songs running from their melody and not looking for a shelter but avoiding the trench to move forward to an end, whichever it can be.

The wind gusts find bodies to turn into and shake the horizon until the feet have forgotten the law of gravity. These are glasses playing with the pale skin and scratching it before getting in touch.

The flavours burn the taste buds and spill bile drops that aspire to be vomited on the esophagus. These are chemical reactions seeking to recover the wasted energy and use it to leave a trace on the surface of the moon.

The perfumes are attached to the back to not be reached and laugh evilly confusing the shadows. These are pins lost through the couch cushions and found between the platelets and the red corpuscles travelling through the veins of the upper extremities.

The voices rise up against the ignored messages and attack the promises in a state of advanced decomposition. These are the arguments living in the alveoli and pushing for the crucial exhalation.

The nerve impulses lost the train for a millisecond and ask themselves if the training for the marathon is being deficient. These are the chains growing at the bottom of the mountain and disturbing the frost.

Threehundred and sixty-five days and six hours

It's a path through the woods, sometimes covered by brambles; others, new grass. Something like the flashing rain that doesn´t wet but freezes the bones. Maybe some wind that helps a bird who is learning to fly. Or the soft sand from the beach when the skin is prone to be scratched.

It's a trail across the cliff, hearing the squawks of the seagulls and the roaring from the storm. Something like the time playing with the doubt because is more real. Maybe a wave sliding slowly over the next one. Or that loving glance from the one who is dreaming and also getting close to the stars.

It's a continued fork in the middle of the city. Something like a crowded street where you can do a perfect slalom. Maybe that coffee shop with kind employees and quiet music. Or that corner of freedom moving from one place to the next as soon as the balance arrives.

It's a track twisting in a mountain from the north, with that intense greenness breathtaking. Something like an adrenalin injection reserved in the fridge. Maybe that trip chewing its time for correct digestion. Or a complicit embrace when the silence arrives.

It's the sidewalk from a meadow coming to spring, with its colourful flowers and the sound of water flowing in a river. Something like a familiar voice that went lost and is scratching fiercely and gracefully to recover the throne. Maybe some incense to confuse the fog. Or a bonfire in the night to roast marshmallows.

An exploration of violence and other metaphors

To burst the silence by clubbing, to make each whisper a dagger that gets sharpened by tearing the skin, to pinch on the wound and fumble in the blood. To shoot a bullet that never arrives and always crash in the middle of the bullseye. To pretend that the river flow hasn't flooded and the lack of oxygen has driven by mistake to drowning, or that the ground thanks the dryness because the poison can easily get into gangrene.

To devour the loneliness in each ditch and plant a poppy that will be the treasure cross. To dress up the words that had already been buried and condemn them again to the stake, let the flames cover each misery and cloud each hope. Hollowing the needle where the pain can invalidate the nerves. To bite off the last breath and then let it get infected until highlight that life was before.

To cut the measured time, the one that played with the memory and feasted the dreams which escape from the fear. To go through a guillotine and show it the path to the gallows. To allow a bath in the lava and sleep in the fence. To grant a trench with bombs ready to exploit. Don't talk about war while the cemetery is getting big, wait an imprudent duration to blame those who are already away. To scratch when the stampede has sold out the tickets. To justify the document.

Let's celebrate

In front of a cliff.

No, from a balcony with nice views.

In a flowery garden.

At night

with shooting stars.

No, no, no.

Upsetting.

Among shadows.

Pure.

Yesterday I would have said...

Tomorrow I'll tell you...

No.

No.

Better now.

Sodium chloride

A handful of salt is slipping through the ground, going down the crust, crossing the mantle, getting close to the core and going back to the ground. It was sodium and chlorine. Now is the frost covering the windows from the village house. No one looks through it, but the spiders are walking on the roof. They are checking on the ants' parade at the worktop. The cock crows but is still soon for the sunrise. A man from the city trying to sleep in the cottage is looking for his earplugs on the night table, between the bottle of cognac and the packet of cigarettes that he didn't want to buy.

The stars are not lighting the earth because are so far away, but it seems like salt spread throughout the sky. The lights in the street aren't working either because by that time of the night it is so cold and better to be at home. So the mayor decided not to have lampposts. And so on it's been forty-seven years and the mayor has a lot to fight with.

The dawn will be in the morning and the frost is turning into dew. It can't evaporate yet because the baker has to come, but the goats and the children are already howling in the field. The cows moo and the bells of the church are pealing. No one cares about it because now life is different.

The river flows strongly because the mountain is sick of snow, which is white, like salt. Or like that ash coming from the earth to the sky.

Dear sock on flat 10

Madrid, 19th January 2022

You've been there for more than a year and I was wondering if you are not interested in moving away. I mean, it's not that I want you to leave, but you have already borne a historical snowfall and a warm summer, you've been the sparrow's tissue and witnessed parrots invasion, no to mention the way you ended up there... I saw the fall with these eyes!... and it wasn't small.

I've seen you mouldy recently, and I'm started to be afraid that you can get alive and move to my window. I'm so sorry but I can't allow you to do so. I've been watching you for so long and I can't get more involved. Am I selfish? Yes, probably. Look, I know about the legend of the washing machine eating socks, yes, it's true, maybe not a legend anymore. Okay, it's also true that they didn't come to save you and there wasn't a report about your missing. But you can not keep living like this.

I can understand that you don't want to socialize with other socks. What about going for a walk with doves? Or, better, you can go to the cinema with divorced gloves, because we talk a lot about lost socks in the washing machine but no one mention that gloves are alone sometimes. Consider asking children for help. I'm just a worried neighbour, don't take this personally, please.

Kind regards and you'll tell me your decision.

Intuitions (and poor titles)

To combine words in a game that seems to lack of logic. It's an inside voice that dictates consciously even when I can't find the sense yet. It has to be born. Maybe I would only be able to understand it after a while. Or never. But it has to be like that. But I want it to be like that. Inexplicably life.

To burn its meaning, turn it upside down and let the wind carry the ashes. They can come as a whisper or as a scream. Will find their tone sliding through my fingers: caressing the skin and scratching the nails. Sometimes I have to cradle them so won't rush over the cliff; others, are retained on a blood frame to drive their fears away.

To create a structure as strong as it can attract the attention on its own and you think that have already caught me. As weak as it can keep the rhythm and I can trust on what is beyond the musicality. The substrate is that door to the adrenalin. The staircase takes you to endless possibilities that are fighting in the attic.

To question the great number of adjectives and the concreteness of each sentence. It's the need for naming to begin its existence and stay away from the darkness, to define its limits to be a frame and support the pieces of a puzzle that may won't ever be completed, maybe varnishing before understanding that there are portions which do not fit, but still deserves a place.

To allocate a picture. It's to wander through memories and recognise as the unique possibility that picture that wasn't planned for a post like this. Sometimes it's frustrating if it's drawn as a marriage of convenience. Maybe just a matter of time to know each other. If they have ended up together it wasn't by chance. There is a thread, invisible to eyes, not to heart.

To enter into the poetic prose category. Because it is a world of darkness where it's possible to identify shapes and colours. Because it runs away from rhymes and hugs the aesthetic beauty that shouts in the depth. Because there is a marked path and the obligation of reading it as the consumer wants. Because it's intuition and, especially, the fulfil need of telling.