Monday, April 22nd, 2024
Wandering:
The sound of that television in the distance leaves an aura of echo in the small space of my living room, the light dominating part of it, piercing through the furniture and the paintings well displayed under the faint glow. My mother's contagious laughter infiltrates me in a dream that doesn't culminate, predictable to my desire to sleep, to distance myself from today, which is mostly pretentious. There I am, with my feet visible from the staircase; on the edge of the sofa, my manicured nails are visible. Resting them, moving without breathing one of my legs from daily stress and the strange satisfaction that makes me not want to stop doing it.
I wake up asleep, I forget; I stop moving as if by magic spell adjusting to the vibes of an empty room, without echoes, without laughter, without fears, without fading away from the cold air that freezes, the heat of the unbalanced spring sun. I remain still, unintentionally, without wanting, without remembering, until the tickling begins like a game of entry to the strange, making me feel an inexplicable peace, a breath caught, the delight of predicting my body bidding farewell, grabbing onto me without letting go; wanting to let go but floating in that attempt to shoot out.
The gasps return to me, it becomes impossible to count how many breaths, it becomes tiring to pull my hand, lift a foot, adjust my head, stroke my hair. The accelerated tickles turn against my body, up and down and derail heavily until they disappear. The attempt to find them again is cruel but satisfying, imagining in a dream, being aware that it is not, and yet not understanding why it was happening now, today, at this very moment. It's like being in a place without wanting to be there, seeing someone you don't expect on one of those rainy days; it's uncomfortable to go out on empty streets. Thus my body felt the true shiver, not fearing, but at the same time not having asked for it, not feeling prepared, adjusted to a leap into the unknown, to another world, to a much better plane with fresher airs.
It's as if nothing made sense in itself, as if I knew what was happening, as if I didn't experience it clearly, as if I already knew the process in life, as if having heard it little by little became familiar to me in retrospect.
"I want this astral journey!, I want and want to be able to rid myself of time, of euphoria, of wanting and not having to do in the now."
I increase my tickles, I imagine myself on a swing that breaks and the rope comes loose, I go through a void, but one that stretches me until I reach the sky, as if from it I detached into infinity, infinity in the opposite sense. I descend and try relentlessly to return to this strong body, to this damned one that doesn't want to give or pay the hours of recess, that gives me little to push back those seconds of minimal; indescribable reaches.
"It's impossible, I won't achieve it!"
"What is that?"
The blackness of closed eyes without opening even from a corner became visible to a new panorama. It approached my being as if it were already stranded in the abyss, there with two transparent legs floating in a place where only nothingness was felt. That huge square seemed to run me over at brake speed, majestic. Images passing suddenly like a photo album whose cover was just that, a "black frame."
Letters jumped that I would quickly go crazy trying to remember the impossible. Another frame passed, another picture, another one which to cars on a highway is a somewhat similar synonym.
I move my foot slightly, my body follows, I open my eyes and hear the brakes' music again. It's a loud echo of words, which cannot be described in an anecdote, which cannot be placed in any story. The television was on during the time I left, the time I came, the time I left, but not shot out, in which I returned surrounded by mixed sensations, of knowing and not having retained a margin of lapses; of what was my mysterious afternoon. In the slight float of my soul above that body of heavy vibes, that peace of living in waves on a beach where the rays don't hit you, nor does the saltiness revive on the tips of tongues.
