jueves, mayo 10, 2012

do you dream often, they asked, their faces the shape of dehydrated tortoises

Goya, Disparate número dos
They came up and they asked, do you dream often? And I said, of course I don't, even if I was precisely asleep at that moment. They shook their heads, and started walking away, dismissing me completely, dismissing me like a three-legged cat is dismissed on a black sabbath. What could I have done, if not just run after them, call out their names, which I didn't know yet, and yell, cry, plea for them to give me one more opportunity. I wouldn't lie this time around, I sniffled apologetically, but they wouldn't give me the time of day, the time of night, they wouldn't give me time, period, and that's what I needed, because I could hear the alarm clock's bray on the other side of the placenta, and I was suddenly certain, positive, genuinely and indisputably confident, like you can only be in the subjunctive of dreams, that what they had to say carried a truth, no, the truth of that singular instant. When they finally stopped, and turned around, with faces the shape of dehydrated tortoises, they uttered--in a language so mine that it escaped me completely--a whisper (can a whisper be uttered?), and I realized that that was it, that that was all there was, stepped back, let myself fall, fall on my ass, fall on my body, fall awake: calm, so calm, so placid and serene. My bed was so soft. The fan was going about its rounds. The upstairs neighbor was stomping her feet.

A song. What was that song?

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