Written on August 16, 2012 – edited on November 2020
From here to there, the difference is hours.
If it is many hours, I don’t know, it depends on what those involved want. But then something happens in the middle of the road that makes her think if she had a problem with whatever goes into the ignition to keep the motor running. Hours on end. Struck by a trance, wrapped in a mantra, with no prediction of where it will lead.
The fully open dress shirt shows the colored bra, the chest accusing the stronger breathing announced the prelude to inspiration. Notebook on her lap, she forces her eyes to not blur – her glasses broke last week. The trousers, with pockets full of change from the bus, have the shape of a floor cloth and are thrown on the carpet. She looks around, as if looking for something that would make her feel what she felt that time, hours ago.
She knows what she wants, but she doesn’t know the way. Everything is messed up, confused inside it, words are missing to talk about the only thing that has inhabited it for hours. And the dawn advances like it doesn’t matter if time will ever come back.
That dreary room no longer tingled his ideas as he used to do. She needed to move, get out of her comfort zone. Anxious, she searched the living room, the kitchen, the corridor, but it was no use. She wouldn’t go anywhere without what she wanted most, which she had hours ago. Behold, the agony became a solution.
Her breathless chest stopped choking her and her heartbeat weaker. She opened the balcony door, took a deep breath, and stayed there. Cold dawn. But she had hours to think about where she would go.
