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.