jueves, 14 de agosto de 2008

Insomnia

Three o´clock. He opened his eyes and pondered upon the countless times he had layed there, breathing. The events of the day, women, friends (past and present) raced through his mind.
That was the moment which eluded him, the moment where consciousness slips away and retreats to another world, a shinier, softer world where he was not himself, where he wasn´t bound by his inhibitions and the rules of the real (real?) world didn´t apply.

A thought came to his head and was dismissed as quickly as it had appeared, "of course he wasn´t afraid his breathing would stop as soon as he fell asleep". This momentary outburst made him reflect on how thoughts often proved to be rebellious and unpredictable, true expressions of the "self" that lives inside, the one that waits for that one, rare, moment when the mind is caught off-guard and one can be truly free.

During the day he was able to escape this thoughts or even confront them, the daily distractions somehow made them trivial, unimportant shadows that lurked behind everything else. It was the nights he feared the most, or at least what the nights, with their pressing silence conjured from the dephts of himself, that feeling that started in his stomach and climbed to his chest corroding and rotting everything in its path.

Tomorrow, he was sure of it, he would be able to take on the world, to laugh and talk and even sing but the present, the voices, the music and the faces that played in his head were unbearable. He turned on the light, picked up his pen, took a look at his watch and started writing: Three o´clock. . .
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5 comentarios:

momo dijo...

sublime.

jajaja me recordó un poco a tu preocupación expresada en nuestra charla de hace poco sobre tu bruta honestidad de a veces.

nos vemos tomy..
un abrazo

Harry dijo...

Muy bueno, y carita feliz guiñando un ojo, como queriendo decir "you did it again, motherfucker": ;)
Dos apuntes probablemente redundantes:
1) como te dije, el hecho de que esté basado en hechos verídicos le da un filo extra;
2) el inglés se mostró el vehículo ideal para todas las oscuras y reflexivas connotaciones que agracian el texto

Un abrazo

MiCoCoLeMbA dijo...

loco... me bloggogustás. te lo tenía que decir.

un abrazo.

andy dijo...

me gusto mucho
posta
corto y bello
me gusto en especial esta frase
"...the countless times he had layed there, breathing,"
cuando decis breathing... como si fuera obvio, innecesario de aclarar; pero en el fondo transmitiendo mucho mas...
al menos eso me parecio

un abrazo,
dickens
(¿?... si lo puse nada mas porq esta en ingles el cuento... no lei nada de dickens, no es q lo puse porq me recordo a algo de el, esta bien viejo?? mm?)

Anya dijo...

dios mío ese segundo párrafo!!

me encanta, demás esta decirlo (bueno, a veces no) y la única razón por la q tardé tanto en comentar es q me dejaste sin palabras... pero lo acabo de releer y volvieron a mi :)

te quiero tom! un beso grande y nos vemos pronto