And I spent the day like a prisoner, a train of thought, wandering around in dark sentences among dead ideas in bewilderment. I knew, from writing on the sheets, numb crumbs at the foot of the room. I also sat on the living room armchair by the imaginary fire. These were the withered hours where my longings were burned, turned into shadows, elongated silhouettes, that slowly escaped from me.
A stain, a world that became small to me, not because of taste or whim, but because flying was the same as crashing dreams into the walls of souls. Those that were painted, in front of my sculptor's eyes, were gems, graffiti, taking the strangest form.
Waiting to be guided. And the more false, for me, the more alive they were...
On a cliff, like the roar of thunder, echoing in the enclosure with the register of a runaway scream. My agitated hand with its only attire, the pen and a yellowish paper. I tore the surface of the fountain until I saw it spill, resounding in the head of a troubadour who, driven like a curse, filled the book to the last page.
Without pause, exaggeratedly wide were the images emanating, lost, begging to be rescued. Like a mirror, they reflected the pain of the one who was reciting, dressed in the four walls and the only window, the mind, a bold representation of a great stain.
And for what, to immolate the life that remained, had already become ashes and lost in the confines of nothingness, that which I was and will not be again. The same track that led me to the reunion with myself, without saying why, or where, or what for. Only suggesting that freedom was in the midst of words and that between death and love were the deepest themes capable of silencing a human mind.
It was like writing against myself, it was like a loaded weapon aimed at every alter ego. Having to watch them fall, one by one, victims of the dark poetry that held them together like silver thread. What gave life to their feeling and their pain, their virtue and their misfortune. Surreal, the opaque voice inaudible between sketches that look to the future for being undeservedly immaculate.
A void so great that it is impossible to fill it, because just like the wind takes away the words and makes them fly beyond where they never thought to be heard. A transparent soul that agglutinates darkness between runes. Love, between verses designed to heal the soul, characters created from nothing, always related to some being that steps on the earth and identifies with the revealed lines.
An ending, written in the less indicated way. When the message and the messenger are just hidden in mansions of the soul not to be touched by time or transformed by continuous magic.
Just like the first time I drew a line on the paper. It was the genesis of my imaginary world as a spring, emerging from the darkness to meet the light.
Amorphous, train of thought, charging the lyric of unfathomable origin from a stain on a canvas...