Before my eyes, you were parading naked

 

And he said to me: - Literature can never be confused with life, girl.

 

Aquiesce. I knew what he meant by that. I understood it immediately, even though each one's life carried truths that were not for everyone.  We all carry truths of our own, and I carried them within me too. The fire broke into a flame in unison with what I had to say to him. The fire happens as a prediction to the other, who takes it as he pleases. And the sparks in flames clouded her voice, but did not prevent her from pronouncing her sentence:

- Well, no, my dear! Unless literature is life itself. 

I turned my back and walked to my destination. Fiction itself, which many called a lie, came to be the truth of others, somewhere scattered in their distant worlds, yes, because everyone had their own private worlds and it was up to each one to know himself and tell his truth. And if fiction was fought with science, strictly speaking, what distinguished it from transporting truths that were lies in other dimensions? Detachment was essential for the continuation of the life that was waiting for her, between worlds.

When I returned to my tiny room, you had grown up and moved through it, as if you had always been there, within reach of my hands. And I saw you naked, just as you had come into the world, stripped of vanities and insecurities and you cradled your arms, as if listening to a melody that tore the walls and I, intoxicated by your dancing body, I saw myself in front of the mirror that you were and I started this dance, following your movements, copying the frenzy of your spirit, bewitched by your stiff and extravagant sex, while I was removing all the obstacles from the clothes that allowed me to perform the social role that wore me out so much. The desire was a voluptuousness that mingled between the beads of sweat on your forehead and my moist hands, between your mouth and my trembling thighs. The fire was there, between your presence and the rubble of the social woman who completely resigned from her judicial protagonism to stick only to the vigor of your masculinity and the trembling of the desire, feminine lust to belong to you. The world was such a small room, and in it could fit all the dreams that I had once dared to forget. The heart was that conciliatory organ, one with you, and it had awakened never to obey others again, only itself and the other that you had always been, in an apotheotic crescendo, and I too heard the harps and the trumpets, the violin and the pianos accompany this waltz that you designed for us. The tribal dance took us to the level of the gods, where all hunger was satiated by the inner beast of love.