I was mortal, feeling I was important just because I carried sheets full of music under my cloak. As if it were mine. As if my interpretation would give anything to this world. I played for schillings anywhere I was allowed. I say I know the greats, the Russians specially, like no one. For a moment there, while playing, I felt like Rachmaninoff and those big, heavy chords of his. I felt the world listening to me. I felt the applause was mine and mine only. To then find myself wandering astray.

Then, then I saw those caramel eyes of hers. I saw those eyes and life seemed to have gone beserk, for every time I sit at the piano now I sense how the music pours onto the keys. I won't even say my music. It is hers. It is all hers. It is as my soul chants to the muse I have found. That muse of nighty hair and moony skin. That muse of sweetest tone of eyes. That muse who has decided to own my lips on hers, to be tide of my sea, to paint life in pastels.

I play now and then, here and there, and it won't matter if none would listen as to my notes are of hers. It is her smile of approval the radiant sun which shall bathe me in light.

RAD

Lerm du Villiè

June 2015

Alguien de muy malas intenciones y de pies pesados me ha dicho en un sueño que si la mañana ha salido mala, las posibilidades de que la tarde sea mejor son casi nulas. Por eso ando ligero rumbo a la escuela cada mañana, por eso toco música en cuanto puedo, por eso me infundo del suave aroma de la manzanilla o el café.

Hoy me resentido de un golpe que me di en las asentaderas hace un par de semanas, corrí de un lado para otro en el trabajo sin poder tararear siquiera, el agua del café ha salido fría, y las calles estaban llenas de gente haciendo el "no sé qué" de un viernes donde todos quieren largarse, aunque creo que no saben a dónde. También me he cortado el dedo, y he perdido aquel lápiz que había guardado para sólo los viernes por siete años. Pensé en dejarme caer en la náusea, en dormir a intervalos cortos para ver el reloj y darme cuenta de que no he dormido nada, pensé en quemar mi bistec y quejarme amargamente mientras lo como, y, sobre todo, pensé en poner aquella pieza de Shostakovich y mandar todo al carajo.

No hoy. Porque he encontrado lo más maravilloso a la entrada de mi hogar. Por años había trabajado en lo más parecido a una fórmula de la alegría que aliviase lo arriba mencionado. La fórmula no era tan mala, pero, pero siempre le hacía falta algo. Cambiaba ingredientes y cantidades de estos, agregaba esencia de flores y sustraía oxígeno de la mezcla, adicionaba tonos de azules y rojos, pero nada. Hasta hoy. He trabajado en la fórmula hoy día, y ha quedado así:

Toma la flor más diminuta que puedas encontrar, no importa el color de ésta, y llévala en tu mano mientras bailas una canción alegre, Al terminar, acércala a tus labios y susúrrale el nombre de la persona a la que quieres. Dásela a oler a un par de seres queridos y guárdala en tu puño izquierdo por once segundos. Pasado el tiempo filtra el sol a través de ella y por sobre un pedazo de papel azul. Toma el papel y colócalo sobre el lado izquierdo de tu pecho mientras lees una misiva escrita cerca del mar, aún mejor si es para ti. Al final habrá que mantener el pequeño papel azul lo más cercano al corazón hasta antes de dormir.

Y hoy he encontrado la misiva perfecta para mí: una postal desde el otro lado del mundo, bañada en el amor.

June 2075

There is rain pouring, yet I do not move from here, this bench where I have sat one a many day. Even the book I hid in my jacket is completely drenched —the Atlas Opisan Nebom by Petrovic. I lit a second cigarette, for, what does it matter now? I hadn't gotten wet since my last birthday, almost a year ago. Sarah, my beloved Sarah, told me I had better not, that I could suphocate, especially in this weather, or that, even worse, if it happened to rain, I would catch pneumonia and everybody knew what would happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. At least to me. I got run over at the age of six, for chrissakes. And I am still here. Not for long, though. It's been nine months since I was supposed to die from that stroke. I regained control of my face muscles. I was able to lift a cigarette to my face and puff the afternoon away. Nothing ever happens. Unlike today. I wonder if I have done wrong. I know it is late to repent, and to say or at least think I am sorry. I have been so difficult many times. I always said kids are the greediest of them all human beings. And I still think it, but, I mean, I am a fucking child no matter how old I am, how grandilocuent my ideas are, how obscure the music is. I am a greedy fucking child. And that might have made me wrong people I cannot apologise to now. It's not that I wish things had been different, though. The Lord, if he happens to give a rat's ass, knows how hard I tried. I was patient with people, and Sarah, my beloved Sarah, should know better. She said I wouldn't live to be 60. And she's fucking gone before me. All have gone before me. That's why I won't move. Cause there's no one who will call my name, who will say 'dad' to then run to hug me, no one to state the obviousness of 'you are wet' and comfort me with a towel. The magic is gone, that's why I clench this book so hard. Hen would call me a wuss and have me get up instead of feeling sorry for myself. I am not. This cigarette tastes so good. Perhaps, it does because I know I am dying. That nurse has finally given up pestering me about sitting here. I sat here to play with my brother that we were driving a truck around town.I sat here to read Verne, Wells, Asimov, and Vonnegut. I had ice cream with each of my best friends here. I was here to hold hands with Sarah and see the afternoon sun fade. Today I have nothing. Just another cigarette in the pack, and this pen and paper. The ink gracefully runs all over, making this letter a tad unintelligible, perhaps making my story unintelligible. I may also be ink run over way too much paper for someone to read me. That's all some people are when they die: wasted ink. I don't wanna be a waste. Perchance the ink I am has created a gorgeous pattern and someone would like to keep me. I may look the Nile, a tulip, a lightning bolt. I may look like that letter which starts the most wonderful name in the world. Sarah, I am feeling cold. It won't stop raining, and I won't be going anywhere. Give me warmth Sarah, just one last time. Perhaps, if I close my eyes, I will be able to see you, and give life one last puff, one last go. I have begun to run, and after I stop writing, I might as well just close my eyes. We are all ink, that's a pretty thought.