No dramas to the day

 

The days unfold like mats of sacrifices, and restless nights follow, where thoughts are mixed between feelings and exhaustion. There are no pauses between insomnia, except for the blessed alprazolam, in half a dose more, to chase away the persistent ideas that I waste my time, in this giving of myself, above the summit of altruism and is pathetic. A ball of injustice wanders between my chest and stomach. I get up and go to tea, to the cats and dogs, to the immense doves and turtledoves that graze the plain full of fertility. The camellias have all opened, the flower of the bottle cleaner ditto, even the cherry tree is already rehearsing for the culmination of the flower. Elsewhere, I could see, in Iván's photos, the cherry and peach trees in bloom. My citrus trees laden with fruits, tangerines, lemons and oranges, abundant, growing into the emptiness of the ground, where they crowd when ripe or sick. The floor covered with intermittent rainwater. Lunch in my head, in my fingers the vague restlessness of dragging the tasks, one after the other, so that the thoughts that have been plaguing me do not return to me. I went to the clinic where I left the orders and the scheduling of exams. I should also take exams, but I postpone myself for any day, a day when I am not required to be dedicated to others, a day when I dedicate myself to myself, I do not know dates and I do not make divinations. Between the routines of this day or any other, they differ little, as do my dreams or thoughts sclerotic by habitude. The monk wears the habit of customs and rituals.

When I have the time, when I stop putting myself off, I will certainly have time to go to the bird market and buy half a dozen of them. My ancestors need freedom. I will ask with diligence and faith, with love and devotion, that all those who are on the threshold, still inclined to the unachieved acts of earthly liberation, of the density that is the illusion in which they lived, may be freed, as well as all the humans who still walk on this earth between a dawn and a dawn of successive seasons. I dreamed of two huge snakes, one green and the other brown, thick, in a small yard full of capoeiras and scattered wood. Neither approached, both fat in their mouths, digesting perhaps a chicken, nor did they turn their grotesque and hungry heads away to see me pass.

I crossed the bridge of illusions. I knew that after that step taken, little or nothing would make me regress in the intentions with which I determine myself. My doctrines have changed with the passage of time, a rosary of hourglasses, I do not know, if by pausing time, pen and thoughts, I could still find them, perched on my cushion where I try to rest the skeleton and where sleep disappears in the midst of these daily changes. I am no longer the same and I do not analyze in this realization any kind of feeling of self-pity or regret, remorse does not bite me and I do not return to where I was standing, like those snakes, almost going into hibernation because they have digested a lot. And I digested a lot, I could hibernate, but that's exactly what I've done to myself, I keep myself from evil energies and I seek, as an assumed hedonist, the good ones, I help myself from music, which is God's mercy in me, so I receive and channel the mysteries that they call miracles. Love, in its layers, fills me with love for myself, like the onion that weakens in the inner layers, I inject myself with hope in the musical notes, in the apotheosis, in the compositions that are usually happy, but also in the sad ones, in those beautiful requiems that alter the heart rate, that soften the affective storms, that magnify the human arts in their divine creation.

Between the plates and cutlery, the sauté and the preparation of a salad, where I force ourselves to digest healthier foods, between their colors and the improvisation of a dessert, I procritiate another poem that goes looking for the right line, the intonation and the way of being served without hurting, without pain, with an anaesthetisation of memories that could put an end to any human war. The napkins and the tinkling of the three legs of goblets in my hand, the swaying of my legs and the warmth of the salamander, the hoarseness of Balboa's barking outside, Che's turrets at the window and Romeo's nibbles on my pajama pants lean against the counter. If on a sad day there are animals and bird chirps, if there are uncontrollable gusts of wind or spontaneous clouds running in the sky, if there is a desire to build bridges in this now, there is no insomnia, no snakes, nor curses nor people that can cloud the joy that the Sun gives us. And I open João Pires, while I serve the rascal rice, much more rascal than me with red beans, and distribute the platters, as if I were the employee of a hotel where the diversified daily rates go through the Mediterranean and Asia, some chicken krenners and a grilled cod steak and a salad seasoned with a drizzle of olive oil and another of cider, where the open chairs are arranged for the bodies to throw themselves on, where they wait for the odors to open people's appetites and time enslaves me for my favorite dessert, after the tidy kitchen, after the cuddle to the animals, after some entertain themselves in the late news and others prepare for a Valentine's Day and then, I sit down again in the chair that has endured me over the years and dedicate myself to sipping that hot and dark liquid, without sugar and without internal blackness and my gaze scans the YouTube application on my cell phone and slowly write Yamma Ensemble. Sephardic music. And then, I hurry to come open my window from where I see, with my eyes resting on the now, on the tank and on space, the provisional clouds and, with my chest open, I give vent to the feelings that the music makes sprout within me. And inside me, an immense sea opens up to the west and at the end, to which only I feel the smell of sea air and the chirping of seagulls. And the rose bushes rise on the blue horizon, compounding the longing I feel for a real field of wildflowers on my bare feet, on a cliff where the sea can be seen from any perspective. Music roots my faith in the beauty, in the peace that I deserve. And it is in this interstice that I am selfish and that I do not postpone myself. Until the time came for other routines, where the machines call me after the spin, to hang the ship's sails on the ropes and in wellies, to see the water wet my feet, as if they were the fringes, the tongues of sea foam to see me kiss my feet and eyes.