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.