Pushing the door open with the image I am returning a broken mirror. Many pieces that are related to each other but who are not able to give a unique sense. Also others who could not fit in, like lightning too blue or black tab.
I look at the lips seems to have worn down to almost nothing. H. nudges me because M. appears to have ignored that we are standing there waiting for something.
But an eye I see lying there in a corner, moves with signs of having seen. M. turns and starts a shaped body hardly perceptible. But I still see these wrinkles are not only the seams of a pieced face.
smiles as usual and H. can not suppress the desire to move forward and embrace. And I start to talk in a completely uncontrolled by the concern that I have produced the picture that I found. M. and H. laugh at the nonsense I say. Return a smile costs little, but my back stiffened as he felt that I discovered a great truth.
M. not sick, no va a morir aunque siga sentado en ese viejo sillón orejero con las piernas cruzadas. Pero yo me lo imagino dentro de un ataúd y lloro un instante por dentro. Mientras alguna pieza musical clásica conocida pero que yo no reconozco suena de fondo, pienso en por qué mis pensamientos van siempre en direcciones tan insospechadas como independientes de mi voluntad.
M. escucha el relato de H., y aunque sigue el hilo y seguro que podría responder a cualquier interrogatorio, no está mirando. Sus fragmentos vuelven a estar esparcidos por el suelo y en un instante siento la necesidad de coger una escoba y devolvérselos todos juntos. Pero eso sería ponerle en un compromiso y sé que no voy to do so.
Despite the exchange of gestures and words of endearment, I start to leave you with the feeling that we have always left more of us than we got. Always at the door, but without change. A sealed meat where occasionally someone gets some air to escape.
But that someone is not me. Certainly not
H.
regard to the latter, I will not tell you my experience of this evening because I say very seriously, he is very technical, I have to learn to control my neural disarray. But is that I remain convinced of my great truth, which comforts me and makes me feel for a while I'm smart and intuitive.
Because despite the close distance of M., I know there's something we share .
That silence differently.
One that is not based on shame, the wisdom or the knowledge to be. Is one that pushes against the lip and to do a lot of strength (hence to be spent). Force not to leave certain words you wish to keep forever. Because the moment that the utter cease to belong. And are subject to interpretation and uncontrollable changes. The nuances and intentions that are based on others 'neural derangement' that would
H.
do not have to be large or deep secret desires. Just a group of words that for once you want to remain intact. Although in the case of M. (Which has done so much longer than I, hence her lips almost invisible) paid the price for outside mirrors reflect an image made of small fragments impossible to rebuild.
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