¿Quién camina?
Mi
calavera bajo mis mejillas blanquecinas,
mi calavera
blanca, mi calavera limpia,
libre de
impurezas,
libre de
carnes que le pesan…
algún
día.
Yemas táctiles
desprovistas
de ojos
recorren
mi tez
y
tantean hasta ver.
Durezas
encuentran
-son los
huesos-.
Y siento
que el resto
sobra.
Ya no
camino.
Mis
pulmones exhalan y se inflan
al tiempo
que el reloj sí camina
en la
habitación del vecino.
Un
paso. Tic.
Un paso.
Tac.
Dibuja
círculos.
Mi
vecino de arriba debe de ser modelo
y debe de
tener pasarela en su apartamento.
Y allí taconea.
Tic.
Tac.
Se
pasea
el Tiempo.
Se me
viene encima.
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
-Charles Bukowski.
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