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In the end she said: “He must be pointing his finger at me”. 

And actually he was. 


John Doe was from a small town-big city; the type of man that walks with no intention other than to flatter his own feet and admire his passing reflection on the windows. He is slick, tall and ugly. His hands were pale white, and they had been, every corner filled with dust, and darkness. His nails tasted like bitter tears and dirty deeds. The back of his neck felt to the touch, like the skin of a child who grew up too soon, but too late. He was alone. And the calamity he excavated to invent himself a duty, created a whirlwind that got underneath your eyes, piercing slowly at the brain, at the lungs; it was blindness.

He was lonely.  And he was indeed, alone.

And he…

Well, he loved her. 

But if only. And if I may say so, he did not.


Now Her: Well, she had pulled all the riddles from the ground, like ripe fruit, and put them in her mouth. She tasted them, suck on them, emptied them of their milk till her mouth was overflow with tangled universes. As if she had swallowed hair, the strings of confabulated landscapes hanged from her tongue, taunting anyone who shook her hand or smiled at her, with dripping watercolors from sunsets she had undone inside her teeth. If you said a few more words to her, or came close to embrace her, she would defiantly flash you, with vistas she had given birth to, inwardly: Very messy! Messy stars, smeared milky ways, tapestries of salt and turquoise, chapped satin lips and doorways that held her body open, like an offering to the unknown.  

And she…She was almost broken; and she was kind of crazy about him.......

A pregnant pause, I have been told, lingers inside everybody’s breath. Well, to give birth to ourselves, without somber hover in the chest, or the blues, or the blank…..body parts of our emotions….

I have been meaning to write stories incessantly, but ink, bottled in my pupils, runs thick lately, blushed with its own transparency to, embrace freedom, overflowed from, the containers of my, bones.

And so, I look for paper in all images surrounding, but there’s never, ever, something in the middle….then, what is it that is around, how can surrounding come to be, come to me, and to become a good enough surface for my, rant.  I shed to attempt to become my own paper, but, winds are strong, pieces of old skin, don’t make it. Not even to toward the wind.  Also, a high rate of, bark falling from me in pieces, not wide enough for me to write in them unless, I, made my words of microscopic dimensions, but, my me-sense and its myopia, we need big words, big like swords…I could, make a collage with, these leaf-like pieces of old me, leaving; I will ask the stars for a chance to, elude to cohesion through their light, regardless of, delayed perception.

"I am not a being in the life support but a being in the world, with the world and with others; I am a being who makes things, knows and ignores, speaks, fears and takes risks, dreams and loves, becomes angry and is enchanted. I am a being who rejects the condition of being a mere object" -Paulo Freire


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