Rincón de Gonzalo

The Lovely Erik!

He is sick of the haunting; of the extraneous deep and dark rhythm, which crumbles through the side of his balcony, and slides right down the feet of his deteriorated door. Erik is sick of running; the detrimental effect of seeing no near end with your scope. It is not just about his suits, or even less about the smile I sewed on his face as to never abandon the goal life is expecting me to grasp anytime soon. Sometimes, even irretrievably hard-hearted men fall into the void of their own reality.

Erik is sick of pretending; of building rockets where there is no science behind or not being sure whether a phantom will soon knock in your colorful hall. 'To be exhausted' is no longer available for him, thus he is craving a more disheartened expression. A sentence that might capture not only all the growls of pain life has prepared for him, but also, especially, all the indents his body wears for matters that normally seem invisible or unthinkable.

Fury nor pain; impotence nor coldness. He shall not discover soon what that tickling feeling of his bones stands for. But he does know it; he is most certainly aware of its curves and edges, of his dark look and his apparent disdain for inherent human emotions like love or companionship.

When he was younger, this feeling adhered with softly crackling noises to the walls of his house. Had it not occurred that way, life may have just turned slightly different for him. It was, then, not only an uncomfortable truth but his sincerest foundation. Some argue humans are all born among the stars, yet Erik observed how some unlucky souls, like him, wait for a more bitter outcome than others; how they are born and will soon be dashed by a harsh experience. Therefore, when Erick was young, life came to his doorstep and exposed him to the saddening events that would steal his aloofness, and make his patterns and manners grow simultaneously with a malevolent whisper who would nibble every corner of his mind ever since.

Once, in a moment of solemnity and openness, he wrote to his life-guide teacher:

"No small eyes should bear a world like that when he does not even know how to write properly. No adolescent should ever contain his tears for not having not a single bright side to look at. None shall ever make these lovely kindred spirits to bring their hopes down. Injustice... That is the nail; it ought to be taught in classrooms that life doesn't always work the same for anyone; and that smirks are often a projection of unweighable braveness".

The teacher cried. It was the loudest crying of all time (and the most eye-opening). He did not know Erik's spirit was so full of hollows. No teacher or classmates knew what his reality indeed looked like. None would have guessed, for Erik's small light always calls him to show up with a bride smile, with the courage he would love others to have too. None would have ever dug so deep to see that some undesirable phantoms purged from him the richest charisma and strongest optimism.

He is indeed sick of being dragged out of the current; to be daily smashed by undeniable arrows of painful life-truths which make him reaffirm his beliefs of life being portrayed as pointless. Weird was –and still is– the night when things went all right; weird was when this little creature observed his home being enchanted with redemption ghosts and fake smiles. Nothing of that would look real to him, he knew there was always a second, more obscure, layer of truth behind these phenomena.

Here's a valuable fact he glimpsed throughout these years and will never erase from his forehead: not knowing where certainly you put your feet on, that's the instant when life trembles and starts looking never-ending, making you wonder almost every second what it would be like to feel the quivers of tranquility going down your neck. That serenity: that is an invaluable gift, thus no coin nor title has ever provided me with such peace. Then, still a naïve explorer of life, he learned that he is nothing but his mental sanity. Only then did he witness there would be nothing left out of him without the meticulous construction of an inexorable palace in his insides.