Playwright

Someone asked me a few weeks ago if I was a playwright. Without thinking I answered: no, well, Sin con tacto was the first one but... error!

According to the Spanish Dictionary, a playwright is that author who writes dramatic plays. That could explain why my immediate answer was negative because it was a comedy... a tragic comedy but comedy. But being realistic, I must be part of that category. And I say must because it's something to be proud of. Definitely. And I say category because to name things is to give them an entity even when we do not always like labels. Because here it means to keep going.

Another thing is to be considered a novelist. Yes, I'd published a book five years ago and I'm now (and who says now is also talking about four long years) working on three more, but, while they are stored in a couple of notebooks and many online documents, without anyone having a knowledge of it apart from trusting my words as no one has access to those pages, I don't think I could include myself in that layer. And I say include myself because to know where you are and where you would like to be, is to be interested in making progress. And I say layer because it is a profession even when some people try to diminish its value.

It's true! I finished writing Sin con tacto by October, but, since I'm working on two more projects that I'm already talking about with someone else and I'm confident that will be played at some point, I can temporarily define myself as playwright.

The secret life of socks

They blamed the dog and the cat alternatively despite being as good as gold. The first almost didn´t bark and the second was sleeping the whole day under the sofa. And even so, each time someone picked the laundry, they attended the discussion very regretful, probably because both had dreamed to play with them. But no, they weren't the guilties for the disappearance of the socks in that house.

The sweet Laura thought that they were doing as her parents, that one was tired of living together and had moved to a richer neighbourhood. Her friends from soccer told her that if there was a money situation, it was for sure that there was a third sock. Her Spanish teacher warranted her that they were punished for not doing their homework, and so on, if she didn't want to vanish like them, she already knew what to do.

David was convinced that they were hospitalized due to smelly poisoning, an option that the girlfriend of that moment definitely confirmed. Of course, considering the jungle that was supposed to be his bedroom, it wasn't that strange that, instead of lost, they had hidden by their own choice.

Flora justified to them, yes, it was their time to live alone... as she would have liked. She was jealous, with her two days contract and the ridiculous salary... But at least, she had more than those who went to uni. She imagined the socks living in a small village by the mountain, eating the food they were growing, breathing clean air, greeting the cows every morning,... and the snowfalls leaving them isolated, the lack of internet and the sixteen kilometres to socialize with someone of their age... were just resignations of a happy life.

Virginia swore that she put it all together on the washing machine and if someone had complaints, it was the perfect time for them to learn how to use it, it wasn't that difficult! She betted that they went around the world due to her house boredom. Oh, Greece, they should have been walking around the temples from those gods. No, no, a romantic trip to Paris, not like those going to Benidorm for the honeymoon because "everyone does". She was just hoping that they didn't bring any souvenirs because it was something else to clean.

Matt, that didn't have a voice in that house anymore, considered that they were on strike because of the extra hours. Yes, maybe they didn't fight enough to keep that working but it was a matter of two. Two!! Anyway, the papers were already signed and there wasn't anything else to talk about, isn't it? Yes, we keep walking about socks, what if not?

The grandmother Antonia was determined to blame those from the tv. She was sure that after switching it off, they came across the screen and misbehaved as the one from the soap operas. And at the same time, eating some chocolates because she didn't like them so much. No, she didn't, of course...

The neighbour of the fifth, that always had to give her opinion because she was living there for so long and, yes, that means to have some privileges, had the theory that they were voluntary on a trip searching for a seamstress, because being as cute as they were but with those holes, was almost a crime. She wouldn't have minded fixing them, it would have been just a minute, but as she wasn't welcomed there anymore...

The postwoman, that was just bringing a parcel but as was already there they insisted her to give also her verdict, didn't understand why they were discussing so much, it was very simple: they must have fallen from the stall and they weren't going to see them again anymore.

Silently, in one corner of the balcony, the washing machine had been consuming those little cloth pieces. Oh, if someone decided to accuse her... They would have learnt what was about the end of the world. No, now, seriously, she wasn't that bad person, it was just the loneliness, if she had at least a dryer to team up... Furthermore, it was just one... two socks... no one would have noticed, isn't it? The option of combining them wasn't that bad, it wasn't necessary to keep everything perfect. Or three... or four... five? And considering the situation, maybe she was just giving them an opportunity of a better life.

Convergent

 Error

_________

.............

_______

Noise

Error

When?

Is there any sign before it happens? How long does it last craked? How to check its resistance? Or does it not matter if it's broken because it can be repaired? How to know if it's coming to an irreversible stage? Can be used any type of glue? How to know if the paste is the correct one or it will cause an allergic reaction? What if the smallest piece gets lost? What if the injury is still infected after being cleaned every day with oxygenated water? It can be used then as if nothing has happened? What about getting broken at the same place? What about those injuries on the opposite side? What if the glue that I need is made thousands of kilometres far from here? What if I can not afford its treatment? What if it doesn't exist and I have to invent it? What if I decide that there is no cure? How long should I wait for that judgement? Is it my decision or can I share it? Could I accept it after its downfall? Can I give it another use even when I perfectly know for what it was made for? How long for the grief? How to organize the funeral? Can I arrange better a party with music until the sunrise?

Because I don't know when but it will collapse. Because I don't know when the answers will come but I'm going to ask everything. Because I don't know when but will definitely keep flying.

You'll find me in the rain

My bowels covered by sand,

my feet

pieces of glass.

I talked with the clouds,

will let you see the stars.

You already know where I live.

Don't think about me.

Look at me.

Sing to the moon.

Feel me.

I walk in your dreams

until the city swallows us.

Let the bonfire lit,

feed it with your wakefulness.

I keep swimming in your lips,

touching your hair.

I keep sailing your hours,

fencing your fears.

I'm still here.

Closed window

It could have been without the stubbornness, if instead of always silent, we would have talked; if instead of always speaking, we would have looked into each other's eyes.

It could have been without all the responsibility, if we could have done a break from everything else, if everything else wouldn't have to be a break.

It could have been without all the waiting, if the innocence had been there just for a visit, if the experience had been just another traveller.

It could have been without all the fear, if the courage would have kept walking, even those small or silences steps; if the guts would have allowed the breath that lungs weren't.

It could have been... but it's not. It simply hasn't been.

Your mother

I met your mother today. She hasn't changed anything! And I'm really happy that she hasn't fallen to it again. Honestly, I was so glad of seeing her. I didn't ask about you. I don't know, I thought it was the best. I showed her the pictures from when I was in Tanzania and spoke to her about my next travel to the Philippines. I don't know, I thought it was the best... for me. Because I was convinced that she was going to tell you about me. That's why, when she asked me how I really was, I did my best to lie to her. She noticed it but followed me. Your mother was the best of our relationship. I promised her to call soon and I really want to do it.

Sorry. Yes, I know that I didn't have to, but she would have been so happy. A couple of days before my departure to the Philippines I had the phone on my hand and already searched her number, but something was wrong with my passport and... It would have been so expensive to call from there and, as she still doesn't want to use whatsapp... I can't understand it: she's so good with new technologies but is determined to not install the app. Well, what I'm going to tell you? You're exactly like her. Okay, I didn't think about a letter or a postcard. I agree, that was my fault, but I was supposed to stay there for a few months and it's been now almost four years. It's a beautiful place and my work there has been... has been hard but also rewarding and... I don't know... to be abroad for so long... But I've seen her today again, well, I was going directly to your house. I didn't go up. She was in the park with your nephew. It's a beautiful boy! I think she was fine, yes, maybe more tired, with some grey hair, but her haircut looks so nice. And her trips to spas? What if she is now the one who gets a boyfriend? Can you imagine it? Yes, common, you were the one joking all the time about it and you would be pleased if she falls in love again. Your mother is a wonderful woman that everyone likes. Of course, like anyone else, with her temperament. I suppose that she has already told you that I'm going to settle here in Spain forever. It's crazy! No, I'm not going to marry soon. Aaah, yes, there is someone that... but no, nothing serious. I didn't ask about you and she didn't mention anything about you... I thought it was the best. She said that I've changed. I think it's just an appearance. I mean... yes, things have happened and... I've learnt, I've stumbled over the same stone... I thought about you... a lot... I even thought that I'd seen you once with a german tourist group. Yes, how could it be you? There are so many kilometres. What's more, you would have cancelled the trip just for avoiding germans, even if it was expensive. You would have been locked in your hotel room before discussing with the guide, and she, kindly but losing her patience, would have shown you that it was your problem for joining a group that wasn't the one you were subscribed with, and she would have clarified it to you twice the day before. No, I'm not a soothsayer, you perfectly know that it would have been like that way. I know you... or... I knew you. Yes, I've overcome it... I do now. I don't know, I imagine I'm talking to you... and everything is fine. I hope that you... I hope that everything goes well for you.

You can not say a word now. It's been less than two months. She was coming from the grocery. She was great physically but... I don't know, there was something... she told me it was your anniversary... you should have told me! Okay, we haven't spoken in years but something like that... I would have been happy... I mean, I am happy... It was her eyes, yes, your mother's eyes used to have light... I told her... and she answered that she was in a hurry because she wanted to visit you... and I thought... "it's the perfect moment to go with her and meet your..." What?... No... Are you not married? I thought that... your... anniversary... I should have known before... I should have... And your mother was as kind as always... We went to your house and drank tea. We talked a lot about you and laughed so much. Yes, you were such a funny man... I think I'll to China. No, no, just a trip, not a long stay, I have to come back and bring your mother a souvenir from the Great Wall. She gave me all your maps and the planning. You were the one who had changed.

Chinas was amazing. Today we went to visit you at the graveyard.

Plans

She put the agenda over the desktop and started to circle the days with different colours. She was going to stay for just a month and, with the excuse of being abroad for so long, was determined to find activities for every afternoon.

After thirty minutes dedicated to the markers, and mobile on hand to fit all her friends in, finished the task with a terrible sensation of discomfort: there were still three days without plans. She enjoyed improvising but it wasn't the right moment. She had prepared herself to talk about it. It was a matter of time. She was just waiting for the perfect timing, it was that.

She looked through the window. The fading rays before nightfall were drawing the sky on purple and orange waves. A light breeze was shaking the appletrees and her cousins were catching each other in the garden. She bitted her lips. She was over there, with her smile and perpetual stillness.

She took the phone and checked her contact list... there were not many options and it was not about organizing meetings with people she didn't want to chat with just for completing the calendar. She could maybe set up another reunion with the schoolmates... or just mention to her uncle how much she missed swimming on the dam.

A sparrow sat on the window frame. They stared at each other and it started to squeak. She smiled and before could realize it, a teardrop was going down her left cheek. She remembered when was smaller and closed her eyes trying to identify the birds and where they were just by their songs. She taught her. She was missing that so much.

It wasn't the time to wait. She took off the agenda's page and threw it. She had to cancel some meetings because there was one with priority.

About yesterday's afternoon

I have to find my recorder. It's that or my fingers writing stories on the phone while walking in Madrid will soon be amputated phalanges, not to mention that I'm going to fall down for not looking ahead.

Yes, I know that phones can also record voice, but the touchscreen won't work with gloves, so it will be the same as before. In favour of the recorder, let's also point out that it has buttons and it can be manipulated without the need of the skin being scarfed by the environment temperature.

What happens is that it will be another type of experience. I mean, on one hand, it will be like talking alone with a weird machine (not weird for me but I suppose it can attract attention, raise glances and I would be distracted because I wanted to find a point of interest in those who felt curiosity).

On the other hand, listening to it would be a problem. A problem? Really, Sara? Please, how tactless... It will be a problem because I would look out my voice's tone and want to squeeze it out more than what it may have (yes, finding details is always interesting when quickly words can not be that specific, but at the end of the day, I think I could be tired of all those analyses, and, well, "it's not necessary to understand everything" - these quotation marks are a reference to another thing that it's not the moment to mention, but that I want to clarify: I'm so proud of).

It will be a problem... a problem? again? it will be that because I would also want to transcribe, beyond my own voice, any other's one and, for sure, will find new and exciting stories... will that really be a problem? Let's see, where I thought there was just one idea, I can find three more, which is amazing but it means a massive amount of short stories that I would not want to write (no, that's a lie)... that I won't be able to write, something frustrating and pointless... if the story wasn't caught by the time it happens, maybe it's not needed to give a voice... and if I have to write it down, I'm pretty sure that it will find a way to appear to me again.

So... this is that I'll keep walking in Madrid with frozen fingers over the phone touchscreen.

A walk in Madrid (part two)

17-11-2021

I'm going down Carrera de San Jerónimo. There is a lady with trainers playing the violin. It sounds horrible. A woman is shouting to her phone that she won't go there on Monday and he should know it. I consider her as the main character of a future short story and I should be taking notes if that's my real intention, even on the phone. The idea becomes weak and I let it go. I don´t know if I'll regret it. There are lots to work on, her personality, background... No, not now.

There is a theatre. I don´t know the play but it's starred a famous actress (this time I know who she is). I'm surprised by the audience as it is not mainly eighty years old people. No, listen to me, with those actors and a big theatre it's usually what happens, and I say that after being at some similar plays.

Three fifty years old women are listening to a fourth one explaining how big Mexico was. I would have liked to follow them for a while to know if she is talking fully aware or has just misunderstood some notes. Their husbands are walking some meters behind them, in silence and, basically, bored.

The Congress is lighted with the French flag. I don´t know if there is a specific reason, but there are no cameras or journalists, so I don´t think so, which makes me become more curious. I pass an expensive hotel. They are playing classical music. The bellboy calls a taxi and a couple speaking Spanish jumps in. They seem like any other one in the street. What kind of people are they in truth?

I arrive at the Fountain of Neptune. I surprised myself by recognising the statue. However, I think about it and it makes sense: I've walked that way thousands of times during the last months. A father puts her daughter with a pink wool cap down. She tries her balance. I left them behind and hear the father running through her after a second. I remember some people. Carpe Diem.

I cross to the tree-lined boulevard. The moon is shining on top of Museo del Prado. Now is smaller but the view is prettier than in Sol according to my point of view. I should visit it in December. The museum, I'm talking about, I'm already used to visiting the moon frequently. No, I shouldn´t, I must.

The Jardín botánico is lit. Yes, it's beautiful, especially in terms of writing, of images from other worlds, but before that, I hate it: I don't think is necessary that much expense neither light pollution.

Atocha is covered in fog. It's interesting that it is just there but I have already gotten used to it. It reminds me of London, not my city. And with that thought, how Bournemouth appears again. I'm finally concerned that with my walk I have been looking for those wonderful things in here. No, I couldn´t find them but this... also... Do I like them? Yes, maybe it has come the time to say that.

I wait at the traffic light looking at a girl taking pictures. It's similar to Cecilia, a uni classmate. I should have learnt a lot from her. I ask myself what she has been up to and promise to investigate her as soon as I arrive home. I'm pretty sure she has already fulfilled some dreams as she was hard-working. Like Laura. I'm glad for her and ask myself if she is okay.

By a weird connection that I can not understand, after seeing a churrería, I remember that it has come that time of the year of buying Christmas cards. It's just that I wanted to send a postcard from Madrid to Lenka and Ale before. I should do it next week, although I have a lot to tell them and would be better to call. Well, we should do a group videocall. I should suggest it soon. It's just... it's not the same anymore... if it was at some point. It's okay. It's what happens with long-distance relationships. But I should type on our chat soon.

The station is bustling with its usual traffic of travellers. I go through the turnstile. While crossing the walkway, my gaze switches between the trains and my trainers, blue because of the trousers and brown because of the mud of any path I have definitely enjoyed.

I go down the mechanic stairs and walk until the end of the platform. The works haven't been finished yet. I think they had already started when I was back in Spain more than a year ago. I think about the messages I have to answer. Words in English and Danish come to my mind despite my messages will be in Spanish. I understand why this language mixture. I do not always understand. I do not always want to understand.

I board the train and sit on the last right window to be able to watch the border sign (that's another story). A girl with two suitcases sits close to me. I think that I would have been her in any other European city. Not anymore and that's also fine.

In front of me there is a family with two children, five and seven probably, but I'm not good at ages... I switch on my ebook while my eyes are more interested in what happens beyond the glass. Sometimes the reflection of the train. The five-year-old girl is looking at me, she hides and looks again. She smiles. Her father pays attention to me and scolds her daughter. I re-read the same paragraph.

I think about Glass, hear it on my mind. I consider if I should be writing this on the tablet. No. I perfectly know how many stories are tucked there for years. I prefer to enjoy this journey again at night. I decide that there won't be any excuses.

The girl is looking at me again. Some songs pop into my head. I have discovered some independent groups and singers. Their lyrics are about life and enjoying it fully, about good memories. I see myself sunbathing on a bench in the morning. I see myself taking pictures in the Rosaleda. The train passes the border and I close the ebook. The book is interesting but it's not the moment. There is another wound closing.

A walk in Madrid

17-11-2021

The screen is black and the credits have just started. I usually wait until their end but, today, I can't. I have to go. I really enjoyed the film and I want to watch it again with someone else. There are thousands of points to analyze. But I have to go and breathe.

I feel like a hot drink. Look through a coffee shop's window. No, not today. I keep walking and arrive at Plaza de España. My hands are asking if I'm going to take my gloves. I don't.

I stop at the traffic light and look to the left. Rosa comes to my mind. Should call her and catch up. I miss her. What about a quick visit?... It's just that I should finish that first. I need a deadline. No pressure, just keep going.

I realize that I can go across the road when I'm involved in a french tourist group. There's another coffee shop. No stop. It's very... not what I want. So then I remember a cozy place close to Sol. There is no time for excuses.

Go up Gran Vía. I remember them. Obviously, they are not there anymore but their shapes. A few hours before, there was a woman hugging a man. It was sad, a lot. He was distant and let her arms wrap him. I would have liked to see her face too.

A man with little white long hair is dancing. He has white headphones. He stops in front of an American film poster. He examines it while keeping his body in action. Close to him, there are two ladies discussing their ailments and the crazy amount of pills they have for breakfast. The one with purple hair points to the man. They both forget the conversation and smile at him. He turns around, winks an eye and keeps dancing up the road.

The Lion King poster is shining again on the theatre. It's soon yet for the usual long queues to go in but there is some audience already waiting. There is a group of four elderly with canes trying to take a selfie. They are having fun but I don´t think the picture will show their happiness, just some diffuse light. I don't think it matters.

I realize that my walk is so fast and I force myself to notice the buildings. I realize the place that is taking Madrid in my life and that now I want it to be that way.

There is an event at Callao, there must be a famous person and her name is kind of familiar but... I'm finally able to cross the elegant crowd and the first elves helping Santa Claus at a mall.

There is a man playing the bagpipe. It reminds me of Galician forests. Its greenness and its silence. I listen to the drums from the Festa do boi on my mind. For a few seconds, I'm also walking through the Allariz cobblestone streets. No. I have to come back to the Calle del Carmen. Carpe Diem. That's our message. I want Friday to come. No, that shouldn't be now neither. Carpe Diem.

It is not possible to find the end of the Doña Manolita's queue. I consider if I would be one day on that waiting time. I don't have time to answer as the smell of chestnuts roasted is intense. It can be related to autumn but for me, it's more connected with Christmas time, with the walkings on those streets when we were younger.

There are some people on the terraces, even of those of ice cream shops. And then it's Sol. The moon is shining over the top of roofs but the lighting billboards are catching the attention at the square, those that you have to tear your eyes away from. It's sad because the big silvery is almost full.

I cross the road, go up and turn left. It's like everyone has disappeared. I find the coffee shop. I went there a few months ago with Carmen and Sofía. I really like to discover places like this with nice people.

I order a coffee and a piece of cake (one day is one day and today's walking is long). I settle on a table in the middle of the business. It's small but very welcoming. I start writing but my eyes and concentration are more interested in everything around me. When the senses are awake is difficult to let them shout. It's not necessary.

The girl who is serving me: short, blue ponytail, worn-out trainers. The other one is in charge of coffees and it's taller. They are a good team. They speak sometimes, they look at each other complicit.

There is an American lady in front of me (I know where she is from after hearing the waiters), she is eating two salads and drinking glasses of water. Then they come two young: he with a suitcase and she with light on her eyes. There are two boys by my side; they have already finished their drinks but are still catching up. I like the light, it's quiet but enough. There is music. It's this.

I finish my coffee. There are still many stories to be written but I don't want to be late. I'm not wearing a watch anymore but I'm still too addicted to time limits. Time and memories. I collect my things and say goodbye to the friendly waiters. I'll be back. Very soon. I step out into Madrid streets...

Multilingual

They were speaking with the dog in Spanish: ven aquí, siéntate por favor, para, muy bien,... They were two men in suits, modern looking, who were talking in English between each other, with a strong accent from the north, probably Scottish or holidaymakers from the highlands. They both changed from one language to the other easily. They must have adopted the pet abroad without introducing it to the bilingual world.

A tall, pale skin, blond, man started to play with the dog and asked them about its age. Just the birds seemed interested in answering. The man was talking in Spanish and they... tried some guttural sounds with brilliant English accent... monosyllables that were supposed to be Spanish but that definitely didn´t define their pet's lifetime. Indeed, it was not the same to wear a suit but to understand many other languages.

Dear Unknown

Who are you? Do you belong to earth or heaven? Do you have wings or spit fire? Can you boost me through the river or take me to quiet floods? Do you prefer the cliff or the abyss? Do you dream of crushing with the wind or rocking the hurricane? Do you greet the poppies or say goodbye to the butterflies? Do you use knives or daggers?

Who are you? No, 'cause it's great to be hidden under the "unknown" name, but I perfectly know that I've met you. Yes, by the way you talk to me, by your use of emojis, by your full stops... Although I also think that you are not just one. I may say that you master several people voices, the certain men's shouts and the silences from some other women. Maybe from countries half-world apart. Maybe part of the same home. Or it is just that I recognize you from another life.

Who are you? I like to imagine you as a shadow in front of the computer. A shape without a body pursuing the thickness. The inhabitants of a hall of mirrors. The resident of a sweet ocean. The citizen of a leafy desert. Sometimes almost a mass of stone. Perhaps chalk. Sometimes an invisible being. Perhaps the fog. Sometimes a clear glass. Perhaps the exhausted thirst. You don´t want to turn around and show me your face. I do not want neither. I like to keep thinking about you as a mud figure always dancing.

Seagull

Flap your wings and let the wind caress your feathers. Flap your wings and let the wind drive you. Flap your wings and let the wind drag you sometimes. Flap your wings and remember that you have legs to rest onshore. Legs to walk and trip. Legs to scratch and keep the balance.

Remain close to the ocean and explore beyond the cliffs. Swim in the sea and imagine what could be beyond the horizon. Fly together with sparrows and doves, talk with mermaids and seahorses. Feed yourself but not just your stomach. Yell to the turmoil of cities and sleep warmed by the waves.

Flap your wings and dream that it is real. Flap your wings and wake up when there is still no light. Flap your wings and show them that you can travel. Flap your wings and remember who you are.

Serenity

Have you ever thought about being friendly with yourself?

A few weeks ago I broke off. I was worried, among other many things, of being unable to cry and then a simple "hello" on a videocall crushed me. I was embarrassed by the weeping but it was what I needed at that time.

I was really surprised of crying like that. I felt heard and felt the hug in the distance. However, it wasn´t enough. I asked for helped and it came quickly but, stupid of me, decided to get angry because it wasn´t the solution I was looking for... when it was the one I was refusing to hear: be yourself. To be me... myself.

I remembered that I like to be positive and everyone to notice it, I like to be alone at home or walking in Madrid but not to feel alone, I like so much to learn and face new challenges, I like to be a bit clumsy at cooking because it's funnier, I like to study Danish in the mornings, I like to feel brave sometimes despite that I usually describe myself as a coward, I like to start writing notebooks and convince myself that this time it's all going to be clean and tidy although I perfectly know that the chaos will begin on the second page (I don´t like that chaos, I love it).

If I was supposed to be more "me", I had to write again. Yes, of course, I never stopped writing but it wasn´t my decision ("Sin con tacto" and "Los Olivos" are obviously out of that negativism, those are treasures), and even sometimes it wasn´t pleasant at all. And that's a problem. So I decided to get back on my mission as short stories giver.

I knew everything was right when, after thirty minutes lying and with frozen feet, I woke up and desperately searched for a notebook because I had found the main thread of my tale. I had so much fun writing as I remembered, as I thought was forgotten. I knew everything was right when I fought with myself because "to stop" do not have a synonym suitable enough to my needs, for the short story and, now that I'm typing this, I realized that neither for my life.

This is not a self-help speech but an automatically writing of what could be a diary. If I decided to publish it here is because this blog is also my story as an author and a witness of my recovery as it has been so many times before. I sometimes re-read old posts and I even like them...

Self-portrait

A drop is going down the hill, avoiding the river, hesitating to fountains but looking at them in the distance; it tries the imitation game, allowing itself to flow in the mud and, when it's getting closer to the ocean, it stops, carefully, holding each atom against the force of gravity and then... disappears.

A voice discovers its tone, trivialising its pitch and spitting out in silence; is hidden in that northern city of stars without night, to start living in the moon and, when finds the sun that is lighting it, decides to run with a steel case. A new home is that other southern city where it was possible to sing even without a melody. Is a shelter that is carried out by the wind, not a storm but the time going by.

A hand is showing its chapped skin and pats lovingly. The fingers touch broken wings and knit a net above the head. The naked body lies down to dream awake, it covers up the legs with flowery autumns and shakes the sand from that imagined beach where the wood was crackling next to a bunch of marshmallows.

It's okay not to be okay

Sometimes there is darkness

and you just want to sleep,

you can't find a reason

to wake up and live.

Sometimes you are forced to smile,

to hear that you have to be fine,

to hide that you are struggling

and feeling that you keep going down.

Let me tell you

what The Chatterboxes taught me:

it's okay to not be okay,

it's okay to be afraid,

it's okay to ask for help.

Masks are great for Halloween

but I prefer to see who you are.

We all cry

as we are all human beings.

We all are allowed

to make things wrong

and to learn

from those mistakes.

We all need some time off

and look after ourselves.

Your mental health

is more important

than what others think.

Pleasure

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, it is "a feeling of happiness or enjoyment".

According to my last weekend, it means six hours and a half with heavy traffic but full of imaginations, twisty roads from Portugal where dropping the disappointments over the cliff, the sun on the face with the eyes closed after lunch with family, the music from Sin con tacto loud on my headphones on the way back.

To be back there from here

On Monday I was back home. I was back in England from the corner of my room in Spain. I was back to them. I suppose that somehow I was also back to me. I was back and it was different because I had already returned during these thirteen months, and when switching off the laptop it remained the frustration of taking decisions without thinking enough about them.

I was back in those early days when it was hard for me to understand English. I was back in those days when I discovered that I could follow all those conversations. I was back in those early days when we experienced Zoom exhaustion. I was back in those days when nothing else matters but to enjoy the session with them. I was back and when switching off the laptop there was "just" the happiness of being volunteering again with them.

Yesterday in the morning I was talking with another volunteer and we discovered that both of us were walking for hours on Friday thinking about the endings. We came to the same conclusion: even if we don´t realize it, we have changed everything, and WE are the ones who have made everything to change, for the bad points and especially for the good ones. And that's something to be proud of even when it´s hard to close that door.

In the afternoon, I had the opportunity to be online again on my organization. They were there, in the office where I spent so much time. And I could hear the noise of the session. I spoke again in English not afraid of all my mistakes but feel really happy. I was back in that January when, without thinking too much about it, I decided to apply for a volunteer placement that I didn´t know so much about. I was back and when switching off the laptop, the screen was lighting.

On clear days

It is a statue

in the middle of a storm,

a bed sheet

looking for a ghost

and a lie

seeking for a cover.

It is a time capsule

that was never buried,

the memory from those days

that is competing for the sword.

It is the inside of a cave

on a starry night,

each wave that comes and goes

on a missing beach.

It is a tired gaze

and a lazy twist.

It is to be back

without knowing how to return.

As if nothing happened

As if the moon was choosing to show her face every night, taking the sun hostage and diving into oceans without waves. As if the forest was dreaming about being bonfires and feed the meadow with the ash. As if the wound wanted to breathe again and pulling out the scab on its own. As if it doesn´t matter.

Now it has turned into lava, it´s been eating the ground under my feet, slowly and constantly. It has visited each closed room and is sleeping at the same place as before. Now it is wandering between dandruff and that wild tuft of hair. Now it wants to take me to the cliff as I did with it before, but what it doesn´t know is that I already have the control, the same as if the wind was choosing the weakest villages to desolate, the same as if the earth was dreaming about shaking the most unstable foundations, the same as if stop drowning was as easier as breath again.

Or as if nothing happened.

Between heaven and earth

As if nothing had happened

the swallows return

when the night is over,

when the echo spreads out

at the wrong time,

goes up the cobwebs

and looks for its owner.

As if nothing had happened

the sky starts misting up,

strips the leaves

from trees without branches

and drags them

to bonfires

that will never go out.

As if nothing had happened

naked bodies

walk through flooded streets

of emptiness and selfishness,

naked bodies

float in the pavements

lacking from shadows.

As if nothing had happened

the bed is still unmade

and the loneliness

slides between the sheets,

settles in the pillow

to also occupy

the dreams;

the nightmares.

As if nothing had happened

the pond dries up

and the dirt stands at the back.

A matter of time

Then, as soon as I finish with this, just a moment, later on, by the end of the moment, right now, tonight, almost, in five minutes, immediately, give me two hours, I won´t forget it, I´ll check it in a while, as soon as I get home, afterwards, I´ll do it tomorrow for sure, another time, I´ve almost finished, at half past, I´ll be late but will be there, a few seconds, when you are able, very soon, don´t wait for me, there is still time, quickly.

When? Not anymore.

The red hoodie

It was two sizes bigger and the quality was questionable. She had bought it on a flea market three winters ago. It was that weekend, maybe for her, that other life.

She didn´t talk about that trip. She arrived, left the suitcase and asked us about the plans for the following week. As any other Sunday. Even if it wasn´t.

She had never unpackaged the luggage, just took the hoodie out. She moved it from one side to the other of the room but didn´t open it. When she was visiting her parents, we entered her room and looked at the suitcase as if our eyes were able to see inside and discover the content. Or if that was going to tell us something else.

She didn´t use it always. But it wasn´t a chance that she wore it when was sad. Or when she fought with us and wanted to go away but the responsibility made her stay.

There was a night when we all had more alcohol than we should. She had danced and drunk as in any other party. Obviously, no one of us remembers how we ended up talking about the suitcase and the red hoodie, but the long minutes of smiles, turned up into a tense silence that took a while to overcome.

In summer, she hugged it. The doors to our rooms were usually open. Then, she left it almost close, as if looking for some privacy but didn´t want to be alone.

I am not sure if any of us asked her openly about it, or we just let the time to swallowed the answers.

Her song

It was such a beautiful melody. It sounded far away, distant, almost heavenly. Just his voice and the guitar.

He said that was a gift for her, that it will always be her song, and she couldn´t have been more excited. He kissed her on the forehead and smiled. It was a warm smile. She knew it wasn´t.

He left the guitar on the table. When she could see his eyes again, the blood was already flowing from her chest. There were two shots but she didn´t hear them. Her mind was still hearing the sound of that beautiful melody.

Woman

On a morning like any other

you get caught

in your own net.

Close your eyes.

Feel yourself.

You are the mermaid

from your own tale.

A dancing body

with new old wings.

Free.

Live barefoot

the nights with bitter moon

and at down,

be back

proud of your presence.

It´s you,

not a dream

not a gentleman awaiting.

It´s you,

woman.

On a sunny day

She sat down on a bench. A train passes by. Another one. There is an engine working. A voice whispering. Roaring. Her body is a statue. A framework without a picture inside. A shadow. Not even the glaze lost. Her knees are shaking, but you can just see it when getting closer. And you do not get closer. There is a wall. You look for the key and you find it.

She joins the train. She ties her stomach and closes her eyes. It seems that she´s not there, that the wind has taken away the salt. Sometimes you forget her existence. She forces you to make her body invisible. And immediately, she puts her forefinger in your arm. It´s warm energy. Delicate and decreasing. Fleeting.

She lets the train go. Her hands are shaking but she waves firmly. The station is empty. The engine is still working. The statue is still close. Too much.

She gets into bed. The engine is noise. A constant noise. The toes caress the coldness of the bedsheets. The hands are a fist; her body, a statue. She plays music in the background and leaves the noise on the pillow. She shakes it and drowns its wrinkles. She plays music in the background to stop the engine. She ties her stomach and closes her eyes. She uses the blanket and sweats so that the noise embraced her skin.

In Madrid on 2021

Sometimes it´s not there. I had played so much that now I believe it. Sometimes it changes into a skeleton; I insert it gently under my skin and strip it without anaesthesia. It is almost always a shield, a layer unable to protect and a sword I hold and never use. I almost always make its make-up so it can look uglier. I hardly ever dominate it. It gets a costume and goes up by pinching my stomach.

I like when it gets away without saying goodbye. I appreciate it quickly because it leaves me on a fragile balance. I like when I spit in its face and kick it so that it moves away. There are wounds and then scars. I like when I look at its eyes and we don´t need a challenge. It rolls over and walks slowly trusting in my regret. I just sigh and let it settle in the same step as disappointments and cowardice.

Sometimes I am the one who gets away without saying goodbye. I close my mouth and hide the anger under the kindness. Sometimes I am the one who set an unbridgeable distance. I kill it being sure that it is the penultimate time. Sometimes I am the one who rolls over to not see how arrives. Because I am the one who hires it.

I like to sow some sentences that I already know are not going to be collected. That´s writing. And own satisfaction. I like to draw the last dot on each paragraph. Never the final dot. And that´s not writing. I like when my hand travels alone. Even when the pencil betrays me. That´s the path of honesty.

The exact amount

It had been a long time since he was living on his own and to be back in his neighbourhood was quite emotional. He was so happy to check that the greengrocer was still open. His eyes were trapped by the intensity of the colours and had to try them again.

-May I help you? - the salesperson got closer.

-Yes, I would like some oranges, please.

-It tastes really good? How much do you want? A kilo would...?

-Some - cut him off while shaking.

-Is it okay fiv...?

-Ssssssh. Just the right amount.

-Ah... Is this enough? Should I add one more?

-No, no, no. You are not understanding anything - he screamed putting his hands above his head.

-Are you feeling okay?

-I want to pay - he answered after a long whisper.

-Alright. It is...

-No, do not say it!!! Take my card and charge it. And don´t try to cheat! Someone will check the numbers afterwards.

Dismissed duration

How long will you stay here?

How long if mermaids are already sleeping,

if you are wrecking

and my skin floats in your veins?

How long will I be able to stay here?

How long if it´s already raining,

if the wind is blowing

and I have a blade in my hands?

How long will you wait?

How long if the moon is not shining,

if the silences are quiet

and you call this madness?

How long will I be able to wait?

How long if there is no wood for the bonfire,

if the words are flying away

and I call this lie?

Could be her?

She slept cowering and walked jumping around. Margaret drew a pentagram in the upper-right corner of every page from her recipes notebook. She was used to doing a braid to stay home and leave the hair free to go on the streets.

She got around the city by scooter, not on the rainy days, when she liked to wear a purple raincoat and transparent waterproof boots so everyone could see her mismatched socks. She didn´t take the time to combine the clothes. Her bedroom was perfectly clean and she looked carefully after every single detail.

She ran early in the morning every day and had a toast with spread chocolate for breakfast. About party nights, she preferred from Thursday to Saturday, but was happy to go out any other day.

Margaret was studying aerospace engineering and was teaching ballet to children in difficult circumstances. She was living on her own since her eighteenth birthday and prepared a meal for her grandparents once a week. She had adopted a dog and a cat.

She was planning to travel to the Argentian coast with a group of friends from her childhood. She was messing around with a boy that she met on a trip to the mountain, but Margaret didn´t want anything serious at that moment.

Her smile could calm anyone but she didn´t hesitate to get angry if someone was being overwhelming. She had a lot of patience except with administrative red tape. She was really good at listening and giving advice. She sometimes asked for help when was struggling with her emotions. She loved to send postcards without signing them when she hadn´t seen someone important for a long time.

So no, I´m not sure if she would have been able to do something like that.

Those other cities

They have an expiration date. You are going to stay there for a couple of weeks, maybe less, and you can not change your ticket to get back to your hometown. However, a piece of your heart drops down and will stay there forever, with no chance to recover it even if you return, especially if you return.

Just some days when happiness gets stronger and the outside world doesn´t matter, everything is intense and you know it. Those short minutes are crucial.

The people you share those days with belong to those memories and would never be the same in any other city, no possible reunion with those feelings, just there, in those special cities, is there when it all makes sense and, at the same time, your universe goes mad.

It´s life, short and intense, and it´s exactly that what makes those cities uniques and temporary.

Everyday poison

They escape from the dreams, from a walk in the forest or the city. They escape from becoming angry at home, from strangers on the train or the supermarket. They escape and come close to me. Sometimes with shyness. Sometimes like a leaf in the wind trying to fly away too quickly. Sometimes they climb my back and grab under my skin.

I let them settle in some corner of my conscience. I listen to them. Not always. They deserve my attention but must learn what their position is. They try to buy the weak ones. Not always successfully. They team up and fight together in a war that has not been declared. I pretend that they don´t leave scars.

Just some of them play with my fingers. Just some of them cross the border and turn into a pile of words. Just some of them reach the lips.

"Place of residence"

It is know place of residence as that space where you live. Maybe a house. Not always a home.

We started February 2020 with a new move. Lenka, Sabine and myself were about to live in a type of student' residence. It was a hotel in front of the sea which rented rooms from their older buildings. It was an experience... well, luckily it was just four weeks.

In our room, we had: three beds, two bedside tables, a small cupboard (where obviously we couldn´t fit the clothes of three for a year and so we basically hung some dresses and the rest kept on our suitcases and plastic boxes that our organization gave us), a plastic transparent chair, a desk with a small tv (that I don´t think any of us switched it on) and a kettle but no cups, a circular board for tea and two uncomfortable chairs, and a typical green hotel easy chairs. We also had our own bathroom. There was just one window and, because of the position of the building, we didn´t have much natural light (I could have forced the edition of the picture but I had to be honest with the reality). One of the walls was sharing with a dance school with lessons every day from eight in the morning to ten in the night.

Breakfast and dinner were included there at some specific timing. If you wanted to have dinner at another time, you could book it and, if you were lucky, someone may give it to you when you arrived tired of working. With the lunch... there were two microwaves that worked sometimes.

The positive point, the fascinating point, was that in two minutes you could literally be walking across the sand. In my despair, I started to run along the beach before going to work...

Going to work?... I sometimes forget that it was just a volunteering placement... I suppose that it is because it wasn´t just a volunteering placement. I had the most supportive team in my office and the young people we worked with were so amazing that made me forget that at some point of the day I had to be back to my "place of residence".

Lovers

Lost in the ocean,

dragged by the current

without any resistance.

Wave after wave,

thunderstorm after thunderstorm.

For how long?

Yesterday it didn´t matter.

I was always interested

in the times of chance.

What about the fog?

It wants to be with you.

What about the wind?

It is your guest.

What about the clear sky?

That is the end.

Kiddos

 -Do you think they will realize it?

-There are just two trains per day.

-So this means that people from the city are not coming and we can swim in the river calmly.

-That´s true!! We should have thought about it before.

-Yes... but we will probably be punished.

-No, the punishment will be just for you because you were the one who hung in the catenary like a monkey.

-It was your idea!

-Okay, we can share it, will be funnier.

22-06-2018

Vertigo

Sometimes was enough to be again the girl who was afraid of the water but wanted to be a mermaid. She walked slowly to the seashore and closed her eyes tightly. She waited patiently for the sea bite. After a few minutes without feeling it, she opened the right eye and checked that the water was still some meters far from her little body.

Then, she took a tiny step and closed her eyes tightly again. Her toes scratched the sand eagerly. As she wasn´t feeling the sea lick, the girl opened the right eye and checked that the water was still some meters far from her little body. She took one more tiny step and repeated the process no more than three times.

Tired of just receiving the ocean sound threat, the girl breathed deeply before screaming with all her might and running wildly towards the waves. She spent so much time soaking that, when going out, she was thinking that was turning into her grandmother considering her wrinkled hands.

She still sometimes played to be that girl who was scared of the water and achieved diving as a mermaid. Despite living a hundred kilometers far from the ocean.

When the time comes

Take me to the ocean and don´t tell me I´m going to drown, that the stars in the sky are the angels I wanted to save.

Take me to the ocean and leave me in the sand until my bowels get to know that I can not sail again.

Take me to the ocean and wait until the foam covers my eyes to see the canvas I didn´t want to look at.

Take me to the ocean and feel how every wave sully my body as others did before I learned to walk.

Take me to the ocean and say goodbye to my memory of salt, let my screams join the unfinished melody they made me sing.

Take me to the ocean and, when you had forgotten me, ask the mermaids to see my sleeping body. Take me back and keep me far from the ocean.

Play time

Charlotte sat down on the bench biting her lower lip. Matt approached her with his butterfly net.

-Yuck, how much blood! - he screamed pointing with his finger the girl´s wound.

-No, don´t touch it.

-But it is not hurting you.

-How do you know it?

-You are not crying.

-Well, it hurts... but it was so much fun.

-What happened?

-I was taking flowers from the top of the wall, they are beautiful and smell very good - she explained excitedly -. They are for my perfume.

-Oh, that´s so cool! Can I help you? I can bring you plaster and we can do the best perfume in the world.

-That would be great... but mum told me that plaster is useless because it´s a big wound. She said that we´ll go to the hospital so they can knit me as if I were a piece of cloth... then I´ll just have a scar.

-Ok, maybe... I can bring you candy so you won´t get bored while they knit you as if you were a piece of cloth.

-You can do perfumes while I´m at the hospital. Before falling, I saw some purple flowers that looked perfect. You can take them for me.

-No, I´ll wait for you, it´s your idea. I think I will search for hidden treasures.

-Okey. Tell the pirates that the fierce Charlotte will kill them if they don´t give you their sweets.

It´s over

To say that she was stubborn, was to underestimate how much she worked to do what she wanted.

They had been talking for months about the party they were celebrating that weekend. Leire worked so hard to be sure that everything was perfect. Her big green eyes checked every single detail.

The guests arrived early but she, still in pyjamas, jumped around everyone smiling and charming them with her curly hair.

It was two hours after, when the music was loud and the glasses were being filled and emptied at the same pace, when the laughs were mixed with the smoke from the barbeque, that Leire stopped in the middle of the balcony and stood quiet with a serious face.

-It´s over, I have to buy it now. Next Thursday... I need it.

And so on she took her jacket and left the house. No one was able to stop her, neither understand what was happening.

Leire walked around the empty streets, without hesitation in her steps and going nowhere. It had been beautiful days, but now she could just walk unable to recognise the city she was living in.

By the time she got back to the party, she had already decided that had to move again and that it was the best party she was ever at.