domingo, 25 de julio de 2010

A box.

Life is something like a cardboard box in the middle of a highway. Some cars evade the box, they don't know what is inside and they don't want to know it, maybe it's dangerous to run over it, and they just change their path.

In the other hand we have those people that don't give a fuck for the box, they just accelerate and hit the box as fast as they can, assuring that if there is something heavy or important inside, the accident would be so epic than they won't have no worries if they make it alive.

If it's raining, the box would seem stuck in the middle of the road, bent and decolourated, with nowhere to go and no force left, so people would think it doesn't matter if it gets a pair of tire marks. If it's windy, the most probably thing the box is doing is being stuck on the side of the road, no future, no will, no next steps.

Little people would stop. Very little, instead. This little people would matter about the box, about the safety of other people, about the contents of the box, even if risking their lives. This little people have over their shoulders the work that neither the cardboard boxes, neither the other drivers can or want to do.

So, in this night, I feel pretty much like a box in a rainy day. Bent, decolourated and waiting for someone that wants to know what is inside, and not if it's valuable.

Don't pay too much attention to this messy rant, probably the beer, probably the truth, maybe both want to remind me where the fuck I am right now.

viernes, 21 de mayo de 2010

Another story.

Dios, cuanto hace que no publico. Pero esta es una entrada distinta. Una pequeña historia de un tema conocido desde un punto de vista distinto y escrita en inglés. La tenía escrita en español, para publicarla cuando tuviera un rato en mi ocupada vida, y ahora voy y la pongo en inglés. Vaya tela lo que me ha costado parirla XD


He was a man that suffered plenty of those “modern syndrome”. Almost all of them, though. Those syndrome that start with A of “agoraphobia”, and continue with D of Diogenes syndrome, until the end of the alphabet. We were all very busy to take care of anyone that were not ourselves, world broke in little pieces sometime ago.Continue?
Odours, smartly enough, took care of my nose long before we entered the house. I was used to rotten, decoy, decomposition odours, but the mixture that I found there resulted in a excessive complicated equation for my nose to solve. Anyway, we had to open that door. Curiosity, maybe. Need, totally.

We didn't run out of humanity, still had some left. And that was our feeling when we saw the picture inside the door, in which the most eye-catching things were those that in normal circumstances wouldn't be noticed. Order in the bedrooms, the clean mattresses although the layer of dust. Time does not forgive. The floor, in the other hand, were something hard to describe. “Diogenes syndrome”, told me my partner. The one living in this flat found utility in all the things he and others usually throw to waste. Looks like he never got rid of that problem.

The problem that we believe he got over, at least in his latter moments, was his scare on going outside, his fear of open spaces, maybe for being too much open, or maybe for the ones that populate that spaces before... or after. And we knew that he got over this problem in his last moment of life, maybe with his last struggle. Maybe because he was running out of life.

Well, it was supposed to be a nice picture, that one of taking a chair to have a sit facing sun and ending your life. Sounded even romantic, movie like. Reality took care of taking a little part of that charm, maybe all of it. His body, stubbornly, was still sat on the chair. But it already lost a great part of his human form. His head was laying behind the chair, it had lost a great percentage of skin. Degradation was primary work of decomposition, and plenty of muscular mass was already melted down, after birds, and later bugs, did their work piercing it. Those insects decided that the dead body was no longer tasty and moved into the house, having some great time with the trash inside.

He lived anchored to his home, a small house that didn't get to one hundred meter summing up the two floors. He lived attached to his life, to his mental illness. He was already sick long before the catastrophe that transformed the world, and continued being sick during it. So, when the screams stopped, the shots silenced, and those that were no longer human left him alone, in that moment of silence, he decided to have some sun in his last morning. No one came to see him, and those who care about him, were probably dead or something worse. So this was the end of his life cicle.

We decided to leave him there (he probably wanted it to be this way) and took some material from his house, he won't use it anyway. Closed the door of the house, we left remembering that this man, this sick man, returned us some humanity feelings we though forgotten.