I did not formally study literature. Regarding poetry, I only remember that I needed to understand some figures to pass my high school exams.
I have been writing since I was 14, I think. Those writings were like letters from children who began an indecipherable journey of passions barely soaked in Pipeño-must wine. From time to time, I had to pay tribute to Poe or Whitman and steal a verse from them. It's just that I really needed to impress them. Shortly after and very naturally, desperate words appeared every so often through the ball of my feelopen.
I must have stacked hundreds of papers and napkins with something written for someone, enough to write forty volumes. The problem is that they are stored who knows where, and, most likely, many of them must be like me: half finished. Ha! Furthermore, I am completely sure that a good part of them never reached their final destination but ended up growing old along with me.
Today, very early in the morning, I made a deal with a guy using the mirror as a witness. I am reconstructing hundreds of stories in this brief space, picking up those fragments of feeling that got stuck between my ribs. From time to time, I empathetically put myself in the shoes of someone I greatly appreciate, and more stories spill through the keys. The letters should solidify (in theory) with a bit more meaning, as I have noticed that they resemble me much more.
Yesterday. Oh yes, yesterday! For now, it is better to leave it asleep. I prefer that not interfere with me, unless has some unpleasant black and white memory to fill some empty space.
Tomorrow: Only my God will know…
Who I am is not important.
What's important is that I have been allowed to understand what has been gifted to me, and it has also made me understand that in the end, I must somehow return these borrowed fragments of life.
✍🏻:πxel
