no longer there, then, bearded fat to jump from one to the other, leaning what we want or do not expect but surprises us with a smile.
There are no letters full of wishes throw to uncertainty and magic.
There is no such row to receive clothing and not a toy. Neither
the charm of not quite understand what do the adults at dinner but trying and wanting to be part of it.
There is no monolithic fascination for fireworks.
There are no bells and whistles that game with new or with the remains of the fireworks, that game so strong that it creates and destroys worlds. Neither
not understand why her aunt wept. There is nothing of that. But, somehow, changed, reinvented, it is still there. And so I raise my glass.
"Civilization begins when the primary objective-that is, the overall satisfaction of needs, is effectively abandoned. (...) The civilization that dominates and represses-the demands of the pleasure principle-remains exist within the same civilization. The unconscious holds up the objectives of the pleasure principle. The return of the repressed history shapes banned and underground civilization. And the exploration of this history reveals the secret not only the individual but also of civilization. " Herbert Marcuse. Want
. That's the only word that exists, the other only on with him. There
centuries walling momentum, slicing economic emotionally installment, covering his mouth with mud and with caution, restricting it to certain times and places.
the beast writhes, stabbed. Twists, bound, bloodied and surrounded. It twists and turns the world.
Do not be simplified. Desire is not just sexual. This is another mechanism to subjugate the verb. Desire is erotic, which contains and exceeds the above. Want
is a wind that carries from one port to another. Want to eat, sleep, cuddle, kiss, kill, laugh, travel, looking, steal, love, hurt, jump, shout, dance ... Each one of us different results of how we managed to contain and allow this wind.
The wind is a breeze. For all our life all around us has been educating the momentum. Giving appropriate time and place, right ways, estimated durations.
And if there is a problem with the breeze is not blowing you know where. Ports disappear. And everything becomes swamp.
That's this place, this office. A swamp. The corner where wishes come to die. There is, yes, some. But it is not the word that creates, pushing, killing and giving life. It's a lazy walk, muddy, between sexual desire by a partner / a, desire Friday it is to be believed (wrongly) devoid of the repressive mechanisms and surrender fully to the desire, the desire to eat, to charge more, being in any other place to sleep.
I look at people around me, to deserotizados faces, expressions of boredom, and I pregnto. I wonder if they amputated the restrictions, if they tear the shame and the idea of \u200b\u200bthe future, if thrown naked prejudice by now, I wonder what would. What violence, orgasms, hates, joys and fights their passion in them. Which verbs break into this life of adjectives.
going to rain. Going to rain soon. Going to rain. I repeat over and over again, like a mantra, like a spell or perhaps as an incentive. Should it rain.
play against me they predicted rain. And we all know that the climate does not like to agree with what meteorologists predict Argentine.
play against me, too, which is Friday. My mantra is seen by the angry eyes of the office. They want a weekend devoid of rain. There
them postponement of happiness until the weekend, needing everything to be perfect in it. There
them with his careless conception of perfection that leaves out the rain. There
them with his delusion that in the end Night stop yawning. There
them with pleasurable pain that represent you on Monday, as hypochondriacs always basking in a new disease. There
them. Because
going to rain. Going to rain soon. Going to rain cats and dogs. The Flood, a bean. Going to rain and rain and rain. There
them in their homes, looking through the window. At the same will be reflected, divided between the inside and the outside. And in that reflection you will see your yawn. See this parasite that is yawning. You will see that it has conquered the whole of who they are. That has engulfed their interests, their curiosities, their concerns, their virtues.
Will be a big yawn as reflected in the window of a studio on a rainy Saturday. And I will be there in the street, dancing in the rain. There is nothing more effective in counteracting the parasite of yawning to dance in the rain.
going to rain. Going to rain soon. I repeat it over and over again, like a mantra, like a spell or perhaps as an incentive. Should it rain.
know there's going to be rock. You know there will be Gypsy music. And even Icelandic hip hop. You know there will be exhibition of photos, drawings and madness. You know who will be members birthday radio show "The abyss of the obvious." You do not know where or when. Well, is Thursday 16 December at 3460 Old Guard (in the bar "Le Troquet Henry"). From 20 pm.
Do not be a whining bastard. What! As with friends! As with the sexual partner you're not (so) ashamed of. You can bring anyone. Anyone But Edgar Allan Poe. There'sa black cat in the bar and we all know That Edgar Allan Poe and black cats do not see Each Other in the eye.
Oui, oui. La fête est ce jeudi. Oui, on the vendredi travaille. Mais ya une soulement streets. Tu veux vivre ou veux you sleep? Here es-tu? La beauté endormie? Putain!
I'm a fool, yes. But, too. Yes, you're a fool. A crazy fool out of the ordinary. A very dangerous madman. And the crazy and dangerous out drinking and dancing. Where? In the bar. What bar? Are you serious? Do not break my balls!
You're going to have a great time! To get drunk. Dancing. And maybe, if you're lucky, you will have sex in the bathroom. Oh, yes. Anything can happen. No. There will be no giraffes.
heat climbs annoying skin like ants biting and puffing and cursing and shouting. Perspiration slides under the clothes like slugs delinquent and overweight. The whispers are twisted in the air, asking how long. The eyes rest on the three confused men who do not even manage to repair the air conditioning in the office.
not a window be opened. We are more than ever, stuck in hell.
terrifies me. I dread to breathe the breath of others here. I do not want to come into me what was inside the big spam. His shirt size
infinite boasts a gallery abstract art signed by the sweat. Dawns on her forehead in his agony liquid heat intolerance. It takes long and desperate gulps of cold water. His intense eyes and pray silently to the three maintenance men. And wait.
I see myself reflected in him. But in a slimming mirror.
There is nothing to distract from this. I've seen any page. Chatted and any tinkering. My manager sent me an email. Do not want to work. He has gone to work from home with air conditioning nailed to 19 degrees not too encouraged me to take care of it.
I can not take it anymore.
To me I love to read and write, if I had to rescue a word, a word, a word which could lead to any shipwreck, even to this hell, that word would play. The game has charm, no kindness, no passion, no creation, no surprise, no subtlety, no dialogue, no maturity, no communion with what is and what it wants to be.
I look at my desk. I stop at toys that populate it. Grab one. I go to the kitchen. Filled it with water. I return to my desk. I'm sorry. I get in engaged in the company's internal chat. I send a mail to my manager saying I'm trabadísimo in a call with a client. That forgiveness does not explain more but this is a mess to speak and write at a time. What if someone else can be ordered.
I open a word. And pulled the toy keyboard. The toy is that bird with which the obese Homer Simpson ticked y. I leave typing. So do not see the screen saver. So you see I'm not away. So do not assume that I went to the square back to get ice cream.
1. Walking awkward. 2. Smells funny. 3. You stare. 4. Is not alive. 5. Delivers a unique sound. 6. His eating habits are questionable. 7. Clearly, not having sex. 8. His breath is reprehensible. 9. Want to kill literally or metaphorically. 10. Not a good conversationalist.
Father Ted, a lovely Irish program, is located on an island. Fiction does not invent. Does not reflect reality. The constructs. So there is a small island lost somewhere in the world where live innocence, violence, absurdity, acidity and tenderness, which lurks everywhere, on tiptoe, the whiff of home. The lonely sea and wrap up the little island. No loneliness of one who is bogged down and shut itself up monoliths of closeness and distance, love and hatred, always totalitarian, always resentful. No. surrounds this small island solitude of sailing every night playing with the stars and with huge sea. The luxury is alien, so there is no landlord has not reached its shores. Even the weather has escaped, as perhaps it has done every island. No rain on it impositions, anguish, madness and needs monsoon elsewhere. When mist-anywhere-do is impervious to the subtle Irish charm. The people there is not landscape. Every relationship, lovers or arch, with all the intermediate range, holds a charm so rare and delicate and profound: they are buddies. is a beacon, the little island. Is the possibility of a home for all who feel that do not belong. It is a shelter for those who tore us to live in a hut in a forest in Ushuaia to the sea at the end of the world, snow and mountains, or those who hurt us not eat breakfast every morning in that house on the coast last Svalbard, and to all households in the middle. is a bandage, the little island, a bandage to the stabbing of unfulfilled desires. is, again, a beacon. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm, receiving us and making us feel at home, giving us shelter, something to drink and eat and when we recovered, we are thrown back to sea. We look here in the storm, like a father watching his son ride a bike, encouraging us to find our place and not live in escapism or fantasies of others. I know the little island right. But now, today, Monday at the office, wrapped in the storm of the alien, nudging the escapism of music and imagination to outrun the encouragement of third-fat breakfast Spam. Although very turro not let me ignore this place. "What else Monday, che. At least it has been a holiday .- spits. I take off the headphones. - What? "That it is almost a holiday. -Ah. Yes - I say. I put the headphones. - Are you going? I take off the headphones. - What? "That if you go somewhere. "Yes. A Craggy Island .- say. I put the headphones. - Why? I take off the headphones. - What? - Where is that? "There is no such place. He looks puzzled and even chewing. "Oh. Was it a joke? -No. I will go. - How? shrug my shoulders. I put the headphones. Toco play. And travel.
His shadow trailing behind, and she fights with her father and first kisses and laughter and many sleepless nights of love and heartache and family Sunday called drunk and that he received from his uncle and his first night in his first apartment rented and fantasies and anxieties and dreams and failures, and mimes and talks and sadness and hope and despair and fear.
The door closes behind. Shadow with its ocean of time slips below it, passing as a pool to the other room.
remains here, on this side, the silence. Just silence. Silence and assumptions. Assumptions and whispers. Whispers and whispers. Whispers and conversations, conversations soaked and cries of anguish and panic and shit and hate.
battling armies of ideas about us in the office. Soldiers bleed and scream and lash out against each other. Succeed for a brief moment and lost for eternity.
The door opens and with it, again silence.
soldiers remain, dying, standing. The man, the man was walking down the intensity, passes between them. The recognition in the eyes of every one of us. But not paying attention. He goes to his desk. Board photos and cartoons to the security man.
greets us with a smile as wide as life itself. His lips twisted. Want to tell us something. But that's something climbing up his chest and it is anticipated that will not pass through your throat and will not open the little door of his eyes in front of us all. Her lips, then twist and nothing else.
The security assigned to it, barely, to the elevators. As if he had not seen coming and going every day working for four years. The fired containing the insult and continues.
A man walks in intensity toward the door.
His shadow trailing behind, and her hugs and tears and spoons and the games you played as a boy and the woman who broke her heart and watching movies curled up with this woman before she broke her heart his hatred for the ice cream sambayon and that sunny Saturday and the first time I laughed so hard that he had a belly and cheeks, and his first guitar lesson.
The door closes behind. Shadow with its ocean of time slips below it, passing as a pool to the other room.
The ghosts of past loves wallow in our need to return. You can not go back. Every moment we are another. But the kiss, the caress, hug and bite and, for a moment, that moment where we surrender to this need, is silent chaos. For a moment the predictable and volatile disappears. We return them to the past. And here we lie, comfortable, satisfied, without being challenged. In an illusion.
The ghosts of past loves lurking in novelistic moments, moments of absolute strengths or weaknesses, we know that the beginning of the fall of any empire or movement is at its best.
The ghosts of past loves and sniff away, having located the moment in question, jump on the prowl. Sometimes we give them battle. Sometimes we give to them. We rarely find, another to another, as two buddies who do not return to the past but floating in the present.
try not to give in to that need. A not felt in every caress caresses I gave him long ago. A not listen to her moans groans of the past, sweetened in times of loneliness. I try to recognize it as another. And celebrate that.
But I can not.
We were alone in the kitchen of the office and I can not help it. I get lost in it.
smile. "I missed you .- I whisper.
As, yes, as in idealized past me first go back to my seat to anyone in the office suspected.
I get the unjustified enormity of life that is the big spam. Discover my complacent smile. "You cunt who put old coffee machine, right? While swelling.
lift my coffee cup at him. -No is told a lady .- old challenge, and took a drink.
For lunch a sandwich in the space around the sun is not out of the sun in the same way you get into a pelopincho not get into the sea.
Because she looks even prettier on sunny days.
Because she is not going to lunch in the square around on sunny days.
For all the idiots in the office say variations of "What a beautiful day for not being here" and I hate to agree with idiots.
For my last defense against what they say is stupid autism headphones and the music I like does not combine with sunny days.
For even pelopincho to hold me back.
Because she carries the sun on your skin and between your skin and I there is an abyss.
Because I'm just not in an office on a sunny day but I am in a course on a new program that is as above, but not quite. Because
buildings and cables and dirt trying to amputate the sky but he will not budge, no, still there, alive and dormant, like a Pied Piper, luring us to escape from the city with him. Because
actually want to escape the city and lie on the grass with her and tell her any day if it is sunny smiles but from his smile and I there is an abyss.
Because I can not hold concrete possibilities.
Because I lived a long time enjoying the other side of the window and you want to be there.
For where you look is where you want and do not look here. Look there. Because
to apologize or explain why it is and, as Neil Gaiman, either in writing or in life you have to explain or apologize because that means you did something wrong.
For sure wrote this on a sunny day, side beyond the window.
Amid the gray and there's boredom beauty. Sign in tiptoe, caution, to the office. It does so through the window. Dodge makes it architecturally bland that awkward climb over each other, embraced by messy cables for speaker and nuisance. Sign in as a playful and generous lover, eager to eroticize where you can not. Sign smiling and estrola against fat mass of Spam.
I look. She looks at me. I look at him. Still standing at the window. - Yes? - Slipped between my lips.
chew in silence.
I look. She looks at me. I look at him. - All right?
"All tranqui .- responds, still chewing. I do not know what it eats. I do not know if you eat something. Maybe their jaws are so accustomed to eating that repeat the motion even when there is nothing in your mouth.
I look. She looks at me. I look at him. Never leaves. - Is something o. ..?
-Toy
boring. I dream
neck. The body devoid of smallness of Gordo Spam continues to deprive the caress of beauty and now claims to be entertaining above. For me.
lazy
My eyes crawls through the roof. Seeking any links that you stay away for at least a few minutes to let me go to lunch without him. Nothing new comes out in my imagination. My eyes stop there, in that very place where the joke, evil and embrace the invention.
- Did you hear? - I say.
Se acerca, masticando. -¿De?- se interesa. Su aliento me arrima la certeza de que está comiendo un chicle de canela.
-Van a elegir a otro team leader manager.
Sus ojos se abren de par en par. Veo a un niño en ellos. Un niño atrapado en la inmensidad del gordo Spam. Y, ahí, ese niño se emociona. -¿En serio?
-En serio.
-¿Y quién?
-No sé. Están evaluando. ¿No viste que últimamente no me levanto de la silla?- le digo. Pongo cara de taxista creído. Guiño un ojo, incluso. -No por nada, titán. No por nada.
Su rostro adopta una expresión de miedo. Le cuesta unos cuantos segundos, con all those cheeks. But it does eventually. Quick Look around. Nobody with hierarchy is watching over us. Take advantage and be reeling in a hurry to your seat. She sits. Open a working screen. And you get bored, but hopeful. I close my eyes and enjoy again the touch of beauty.
Two sumo wrestlers roll around on my eyelids. The monitor displays news bland, predictable and yawn pages and annoyance, and urging me to give them more room for fat, for me to resign and close your eyes.
However, I give up. I get up. I go to the kitchen as an octopus clinging to my feet. Sales of its other tentacles are attached to walls and desks, making every step I take. Crawl back in chairs and clerks, to telephones and computers and posters with the objectives of the company.
The imbroglio is locked in the hallway. All stuck there, between the walls, talking or working as if nothing happened. But the octopus does not let go. Nor are released to them. Drag feet with excruciating slowness, and with every step I take Dante to the kitchen is a little more away.
However, I give up. Continuous and beside me dig a well and, escorted by flames and smell of sulfur, leave the devil. I proposed to get rid of my load if I agree to return the company and begin to move up the hierarchy of project leaders, team leaders, managers, team leaders, managers and senior managers. I shake my head and take another step. The Devil will not, however, and still there trying to corrupt me. Ramiro
stops beside me, sipping your coffee. She looks at me. "Mondays are complicated .- says.
I rip an arm and hit him with it until he dies. And laugh. Crazy laugh. Laugh crazy enough to come to me and I admitted to a mental hospital, with outdoor patio and coffee and coffee and coffee. But I crawled into the kitchen that never stops away.
stretched out my hand towards the coffee machine, forever a few meters, as if suddenly could develop jedi skills and distance and then tap the levitating bring the cup to me. And, as we are, we change the taste of that spit acid by brown and taste like coffee. And, as we are, with my powers I attribute the ability to wake up and strip me of octopus and dragged behind the office and the two sumo wrestlers who do not stop wallowing in my eyes and the devil who wants to see me become who hatred and being Ramiro Ramiro.
But no.
am not jedi. And take another step and move farther kitchen and fatigue has me in the palm of your hand. However, I do not surrender. Take another step and then someone else comes in the constant sum of opponents. The Worst of all, perhaps. Yes worse than the devil and even worse than Ramiro. It is a small horse, fat, bald and galley, with a mustache and green suit. Obvious is the Lord. Mr. Obvious says all that is obvious but one, due to fatigue, stupidity or denial, it is impossible to see. Sometimes the Lord Obvious is embodied in our family, our parents, a friend, a teacher or a brother. Sometimes, just presented as the dwarf is unbearable. Because not only shows us what we had before our eyes and we could not see. Rather, he delights in it.
I pointed with his pipe. "When we expect something alien to us, that something external, we solve an uncertainty, we wake up, motivate us, that something never arrives. And the search becomes unbearable.
I look. I pull my arm I have left and, holding it with my teeth, hit him with it until I die. - And how can I not find that thing out and find me? - Say in return.
I look. He smokes his pipe. "It's obvious that you have you answer. I
another step. Drag the entire back office. And the octopus that binds me to it. And sumo wrestlers. And Ramiro. And the Devil. And Mr. Obvious. And now, a response that is not listed. However, I do not surrender.
each piece of chicken carefully, absorbed in what poke my knife, as if the first vivisection by an angel. Take the fork to my mouth with parsimony. The napkin goes guarded the corners of my lips after every bite. And seat also. Hardly. Morosely. As weighing an intricate but subtle dance of flavors. And
.
The chicken is tasty and succulent everything he promised the boy. In fact, it is dry and slightly burnt. And damn salty.
But the farce is necessary. Around me eat and talk and laugh and mobs all of my group. All. Project techs. Project leaders. Teamleaders. Teamleaders managers. Managers. All the stupid hierarchical chain of titles in this stupid stupid company. And
.
not want to talk to the fat Spam on Ricardo Fort. I do not want to talk to Ramiro on Two and a Half Men . I do not want to talk to Mr. Charles K on discrepancies between TMZ and E! gossip about not know what movie star does not know what to vamp in do not know what series I do not know what channel. And
.
not serve. These lunch to boost morale and unite as a group do not work. Not me, anyway. It makes me feel eternal. They make me feel bored and annoyed Dorian Gray with my eternity and the minutiae of speaking mortals. I become a Sandman without curiosity. Not because my interests better. Not because my world is another. But because his feel do not belong. I can not breathe.
then I continue with the farce of absurd stretch to every bite. In pasearme his eyes and a smile talk stupid talk, never stopping somewhere. So I'll make it, I think. So the dishes removed soon. This will take the challenge of finding something to entertain myself while waiting for the bill. And then, walking slowly and looking around as if for the first time I see and breathe and play and smile. And
.
No, no, no. My knife dug into the chicken with the slowness of a Russian film. And the fat man says Spam.
"What silence Right?
My eyes glide toward him. We continue to urge that no such sentence. That annoying old phrase that is repeated in many foods. Why not enjoy the silence? Do we have to talk and gossip Fort TMZ and enterprise and hygienic actors who play vampires? Okay, this is not my world. I understand. These are the topics of conversation in this world. I understand. But is that here you can not be silent and be at ease at once? Now that I do not understand.
His lips open, showing me that it will. And also showing me is chewing meat.
My eyes are dragged along the floor. As I like to do. As did soldiers in trenches avoiding bullets. The seed sludge of steel and gunpowder is now excels carpet and office desks and chairs. The bullets are now escorted by smiling eyes accompanied by two words that encapsulate a minimum sentence lethal.
Happy day. And
. No, man. No. Not that. I'm not your friend. And you're not my friend. I do not think so. And you do not. So why the charade? Is that the hint of a different day in a sea of \u200b\u200bgray days is as equally to be vital to further accentuate the difference? And then to say hello on the day of his friend. And to fill with flowers on the day of spring. And on Valentine's Day. And greet each ferocious atheists at Christmas.
That the possibility of a single day make us forget the similarity and the tedium of the rest. To celebrate the anniversary and not the year. We live for the weekend. That we exist and not live.
I slumped in his chair, wounded. Several were able to intercept with Happy day, Happy Friends Day and even hummed Happy, happy in your day, my friend God bless you, you eat rotten bananas and you turn back. Even I changed the lyrics to make it more suitable to this day, very unhappy. About
everyone greets and kiss and give hugs. And I do not understand. I do not understand if you live as real. Or if you are aware of the hypocrisy. Perhaps you feel it. Perhaps sit down and be genuine and be me strange and confused. Without a doubt I feel I belong here, after all.
My eyes rest on the window. You look where you want to be. But until all 18 have to attend these square meters.
Spam Shadow of fat soaked me. She looks at me. I look at him. Smile. "Happy days .- says.
a deep breath. She looks at me. I look at him. - Giraffes! Pororo! Passepartout and watermelons, water slide and Peron .- I say, hugging him. Well, cuddling is an approximate term. Willow would be like trying to hug the dwarf planet Earth.
I look. I look at him. Squint eyes. It might work. He laughs. It worked.
"You're crazy, man.
pie-Chasquibums and Nietzsche. Tiles!
Leaves, laughing. I grab a post-it. I have to devise new ways beyond the Dadaist Crazy to avoid uncomfortable, I write.
hours that separate me from the 18 are several. And my dribbling, few. And I will tell. Happy days I say again and will be terrible.
says "Hello .- I the receptionist "Happy day.
most terrible examples tend to happen soon.
And yes.
is terrible. It is terrible in a way that had not contemplated. Terrible at a dose that eats me inside. Destroys me. Collapses on me everything, even the titanic urge to look at and say I do not want to be your friend, that is dawning in his eyes and his smile and meadows in spring in its perfume and hug and kiss and make love there. While devouring anything left standing only enough strength to smile as if to say "Happy day.
And it goes, happy, unaware of the profound chaos and devastation left in my chest. My eyes, behind her. After all, you look to where you want to be.
borders always intrigued me. These delicate lines are nothing and are too deep. Intermittent walls. The boundaries, like the invention of the New Year, arise from our inability to accept that nothing starts. That all continues.
Then divide. Divide and establish hierarchies and justify the walls and separating for every lie must be justified.
Mind and body, conscious and unconscious, spring, summer, autumn and winter, countries, ages, feelings, first and third worlds, sexual orientation and, of course, team leaders and employees.
Ramiro was promoted again. No raise, of course. No change of office. Even gave him a most charming mousepad. Nothing. It was just a pat on the back, as if to say: "Keep trying to be the biggest fish in this pond, boy.'re Going the right direction." Now is a kind of team leader of the team leaders. Quite sloppy. But he believed God. God believes.
to be beside me, his chest inflated, and views the office as if he were the owner of each chair, computer, pens, post-it, person cubicle. Take a sip of coffee machine that spits acid from here and sighs, as the cops in movies sigh Yankees in control path to prisoners while biting the side of the road.
cartographic Now the dots around me. A light and abysmal border separates me from this place. A wall in the form of headphones. Edith Piaf, that night with memories of dawn, sing. sing Non, rien de rien / Non, je ne regrette rien . And I am overcome the image of someone looking at your life, steeped in misery and happiness, saying that he does not regret anything. And I become certain that my case is not the same.
But here's the bottom line. The boundaries collapse. There are winters in the spring. There is love where there should be a professional relationship. There are children at fifty years. There hatred and discrimination in political correctness. There are office Edith Piaf. Ramiro's voice comes through the song. Immediately stop mp3, refusing to be author of such macabre duet.
And the wall fell. Falls with the truth that I am not immune to this office. There is no boundary between her and me. I can not hide in headphones and French songs and Irish and Norse legends.
I'm here.
If you want to live in Cambodia, find a way to go to Cambodia. If you want to spend the winter in India, I will somehow. If you desire to have tea in Russia, I'll take just. Because those are the borders that do not collapse: the excuses that are put oneself for not being where you want to do what he wants.
-.- On Wednesday complicated slides Ramiro while taking a sip of coffee, almost in a whisper, as if let loose a truth that the world is not ready to hear yet.
I look. She looks at me. Take another drink. Nodding, smiling. Unknown interrupt just to Edith Piaf. Know that if we lived seven hundred years ago such recklessness would have been punished by an ax in his head. Not only that. Keep pulling me talk. - Do you have something in mind for the weekend? - Proposes.
nod. I will not be incorporated into any possible plan.
"I do not. No idea what to do. Maybe go to the movies. But do not spend anything. I do not know.
guess it's appropriate shrugged. I do.
He points with his finger manager team leader of my monitor. - Are you coming along with the job? - Says notice if you need someone to put you to work side by side that this has to go out today or yes.
I look. She looks at me. The very turro also seeks the hack. I nod. Team leader-manager .- repair.
smiles proudly. - Did you see?
-Fri.
"I'm very happy, thanks.
- Did you ever imagine this?
"Something suspicious but thought it was so cool.
"No, no. Of boy. What did you want to be at this age when you were a kid?
I look. I look at him. The gleam in their eyes is another. "Astronaut. I wanted to be an astronaut. And also paleontologist. And a musician. And I wanted to travel and write about my adventures.
I look. I look at him. Take a sip of coffee. Behold the office. But it's not a policeman guarding prisoners biting off the route. There's no way. The wall between what is and what he wanted to be collapsed. The two variations of Ramiro look at each other, for the first time. And do not recognize.
In recent days, evidently bought fireworks. To escort the triumph Argentina on Saturday.
began to be heard, timidly, hours later. Some, at least. Isolated. Dissociated. Wrapped in silence throughout the rest of Saturday and Sunday. Perhaps the lit only by purchasing them. Perhaps, to give encouragement even in failure. Or it might have on the order of celebrating other successes.
By then the joke of a nephew deserved a firecracker.
Having achieved applauded work with a straw.
approve a partial, with a ROMPEPORTONES. Get
department, with stars.
Every time a firework exploded in the quiet of the weekend, someone was happy.
But on Monday has arrived.
And with it, horns and exhaust pipes and motors and speakers and ringtones teamleaders requests and protests and comments about this scandal on television or on such other and horns and more horns. If someone is happy and not listen to him.
I wear headphones so knowing that any joy in the city is quiet. And I go in the elevator as he descends into hell.
And there she is.
Receptionist new. His first day.
I look. Smile. And greets me with the little hand. I go to her and give her a kiss. Her perfume. His eyes. Es His smile. His gaze. Sure. Probably did the same and with 63 employees who did not arrive as late as me. Surely there is nothing special in his greeting. But, anyway, the lunch will go down and buy me some chasquibums to announce my happiness. And that the city try to shut up if you dare.
"I tell you what matters are the tits. The ass is not what you see. Going to be sitting all the time. What had better tits? The second. Case closed.
"You do not know life.
"Let's see. Why not?
"And why not. What is more interesting? "What you have in the eyes or what lies and promises? The last time I had entered was the best ass. That is going to be.
"And then I say to myself that I can not live. When dresses to choose one receptionist in the ass? Tits, man. The tits are the criteria.
-ass.
-teats.
"Let's see. Will? Will? Will?
I can not go on pretending that I hear tremendous philosophical debate. Turn towards them. - Yes?
- You do you want?
pucker your lips. "Feeling comfortable with my life.
"You always on the moon. No, man. With the receptionist. What do you prefer with the receptionist?
The phrase is repeated with the accuracy of the lie. Why not. It is not. It is extremely important. In fact, within the broad world of expendable and jerk, a world that includes all the manuals that I had read in my work, all meetings with my managers, all the speeches of CEOs in year-end holidays, the list of business objectives that everyone should have on your desk, and Ramiro, few things are as expendable and imbeciles like this.
-Extremely important that, eh?
good thing is that from time to time vary the order of words. That makes it a skillful liar. For the truth begets multiple ways to be told. The lie, however, provides only a handful because he feared the bill confused. But someone skilled in the subtle art of deception known to alter a little way of telling what is not. And no, I do not look Lie to me . Just learned from the various times in which my manager told me why could not give me a raise.
"This is extremely important.
And again the same. All right. It was not as skilled as it seemed. Overestimate. It is well dressed. Has an iPhone. A high office in the company. And so long frequenting offices made me believe that define the interior shell, and not vice versa. My fault for succumbing to his speech, being permeable to their hierarchy of values. It is in these moments in which I recognize as another zombie when I want to run over to the window and jump into the void. Of course, the awkwardness of this city knew stabbing the heavens with messy tangle of wires, which end up suspended from the estrolarme themselves rather than on the asphalt.
-Extremely important, people.
Shit. I grab him by the lapels of his expensive suit and shake. I yell it is not important. That nothing is. Not even the most elaborate virtues or the most titanic achievements of mankind are monoliths that can last for eternity. Time is a beast that devours everything, and it passes, leaves only two things: the certainty that nothing and silence prevails. Faced with such vastness and desolation, what is the importance of this new function in an insipid program we use in this dull work?
–¿Cuán importante?
Hay un instante de desconcierto. –Sumamente.- pronto corean todos, sonrientes por haber sido incluidos.
Y arranco el matafuego de la pared y con el mismo vuelvo cubistas a los rostros de cada uno acá presente mientras el grito que contuve por años se despliega entero en mi garganta y, con él, se resquebrajan las paredes y el edificio colapsa y los cables son arrastrados con él y, con ellos, los otros edificios y cada una de sus oficinas hasta despojar de paredes y cursos y cubículos y conferencias a cada oficinista allá afuera y que parpadeen, acomodando sus ojos al sol, hasta poder contemplar cómo lo importante, lo sumamente importante, aquello por lo que resignaron dreams and happiness and hours and hours and hours and hours is more than a handful of dust.
arrived safely in the capital, the sisters treat me with great kindness and train me to manage our resources more efficiently.
first thing I wanted to do was to visit the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Remember how many times he promised it would take to His altar the most beautiful flowers we found when we worked miracles with the children milk and soup for the elderly?, Among many others, remember, Sister Teresa? As I said, this is the time to fulfill the promise and thank him for the favors he has done.
Joaquina's sister offered to take me to the Basilica and before the market to buy the biggest bouquet of flowers and cool, I saw I did not know flowers: chrysanthemums, birds of paradise, Margaritone, clouds, pink roses, red, peach carnations and others whose names I could not learn. I tried to make a bouquet with some of them, but the price was too high. If he paid that field, exhausted my per diem in a heartbeat.
florist Seeing my embarrassment, I said, almost in secret sister, back in the sink, where I wash my plants and tools, I have some roses that I left yesterday. I thanked him and immediately went to scrutinize. There were
-forming a bouquet-five white roses, languishing have been devalued and relegated only to have lost its moisture. I took the bouquet, and her perfume smelled it traveled as carried by a bee in my nose to the brain, I decided to take it.
I left my modest bouquet florist, Joaquina and I headed to the Basilica, and she prayed in front of our community, thanked him for all the miracles that we do every day and before I left to leave bouquet feet, begging him not to see the poverty of my gift but the love of my intention. Tell me, Mother, do you think that Our Lady has been offended by the flowers that I brought?
I send blessings and joy all sisters.
Signature: Sister Aurora de Jesús
Dear Sister Aurora de Jesús:
May love and peace be with you and all the little sisters. We miss her vanilla porridge for breakfast, but we know that this small sacrifice will benefit our community.
So finally visited our Lupita ... I'm glad, because we owed many favors. Thank you for deciding to take those white roses to Our Lady.
You know, Sister Aurora? Our Lord has created everything that exists, and has also given a destination. Nothing escapes His gaze. If you saw in the first row florist arranged all the flowers, it is because the human eye chooses what apparently is perfect and worthy of possession, however, sister, not always the most beautiful for men are the most beautiful for God.
No doubt, sister, you chose either the gift of Mary, she knows that some flowers were created to adorn men and others were created for the perfuming the sky.
The hope would soon return home. May God protect you.
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He seemed to be in a tunnel that extended indefinitely. He lit the single candle he had. Too small, but hoped that would give a little help during the blackout. "They are never more than two hours," he said to cheer. Foreign investment
no lights, no sound came. Turned on the radio to highlight the silence and tell the time with no luck because no speaker told him what time of night it was.
He lay on his sheets and fatigue did doze. Awoke when he heard screeching candle was consumed. The radio asked everyone to leave their homes because not complicate traffic. It was a general court. Only had to wait. A little more.
his watch ticked eight and ten. Estimated to have spent more than ten hours, but there was light. Was reprimanded for having only a wireless phone ... "Tomorrow I'll buy a normal one, 'she said, with plans to speed up the time.
saving blew out the candle wax, as the blackout seemed as eternal. After what seemed like twenty minutes went to the home office, walked seven steps, opened the office door, candle in hand and looking his desktop vision paralyzed him: In the chair, arms crossed and his head blown up, looked at his corpse.
He remembered everything. He also recalled the terror that caused the darkness and blew out the candle. Knew he was going to need.
indelible ink or love forever recorded as evidence of Dreams
never believed in love. I thought it was a sad woman and a liar. One winter night she slept on her back and cried for hours, while his mascara left on your skin written a love story telling the legend of a woman lying sad that winter night he slept on the back of her lover and cried for hours, while his mascara left written on his back a love story telling the legend of a sad woman and lying to a winter's night sleep ...
