“Caught Into The Blue Pales Appeasament”

Domingo, Febrero 17, 2019

The morning was clear. The sun had just begun to appear on the horizon when Joan found herself staring at the pavement, dazzled by the tangential line of the sun thrown on the roadway by he was traveling through. He was not rambling on about a particular point, but he was worried about a line he had to write. One that he had not yet been able to write. A distant perfume, on the skin of a dreamlike atmosphere, as orchid roots, which should look for an outside outlet to absorb moisture in the environment by its leaves, had made him understand that the oxygen of certain compounds was not a poison. That there was a cliché about the interlaced terrains that gave a lot to think, talk or try to understand in essence, outside to get rid of a sensation or limiting concept as if it were the search for creation or erection of a dream. He had debated, between one thing and another many times, and then come to conclude that one thing and the other were part of the same, and that the one without the other would not survive at any point in the 3-D system. As a bilateral system, and as a three-by-two link, a pair was a pair that could form a series of complex interactions that could not be carried out, in another way. The dream, had caught him this time. The dream that collapses due to fatigue to the organism. He had been taken by surprise while driving down the street at an extreme speed for the dust, blindness and persistence; as well as a road could be transited in the middle of little misgivings.
A cloud of powder, assisted by the same wind and sun of that wintry, windy morning, ran over the windshield, and at the same time that he could not see the road ahead, he could not feel completely his body or been inside of his body; not yet, not again. It was as if he was sleeping; but he could not see anything at all. Sleeping a dream known by someone else, and unknown, until then, for him. However, Joan, did not feel afraid. Strangely, although he could not see anything, it was like trying to wade through the traffic that came from the front, and that he knew existed, that they came straight ahead, to him. He could hear the cars, feel the smell of the burned oils, -nothing is so cheap here, as to discard it, beforehand, he thought-. He knew he did not have many options to get out unscathed; but he continued to dream that he was sleeping, while were driving until he regained his vision and could stop the car aside. How many seconds or minutes could have passed? Joan, he saw himself at the flywheel and knew it was not a dream; that he was inhabiting the third dimension, that he was driving until an instant before; that he did not know if he was driving his own destiny or those of many more, or even somewhat of something else; but definitely, he was doing his millimeter part of his moment in that time.
Then, a little, still dazed for the moment lived and content, he knew he should park. He parked at one side of the street. Tears ran down for his face remembering something else, something he had not been able to or did not want to invade his mind for some time. In his system of defense for survival he had created the magic of protecting his autoimmune system from that parental category of not dying by vestiges but by works. Not to die in the erased trace of a memory discontinued by the expletive of old time and aging, emptied, without formalizing, without giving credit to be, because in a certain sense, without the possibility of remembering what we are, we simply stopped being.

The image of what had been skewed was the same shadow and the same light that cleared and gave courage to those who, behind him, tried not to cross the same corridors. -Darling, I know-, I can't get enough if there is a selfish love, like a plover, and not like a clover!-, his words, to her, years ago, and his tears were running down his cheeks again. Parked. He could not contain the fork of a second-person rapporteur, who had been the actor in the first person. -If you go back, even for a second, you would not think of being caught between a block of snow and a rope, you would have to re-cut the rope, for one of the two-. Those were the words that, suddenly, after a microscopic wait gave him a verdict. Finally, there was nothing that could be done. Things were lived while these could be lived because they were then within the same framework of influence, of action, but once, that the option was reduced to one of two, it was necessary to choose, for one or the other.

Joan, coming home from work, a heavy guard has passed the night before. He had only escaped a few minutes of his routine to go home and see her, her, again, for a moment. Those moments were the signal of his heart to understand that the world was spinning around dreams, but that these, in turn, turned around so that his mind escaped, partially, the insane to contain the avalanche of battered competition.

One last tear, now some calmness. Joan wiped his face with a white silk handkerchief that Beth had given him and put it back in his pants pocket. He started driving again, remembering the moment he had just lived; vivid as a dream, but it knew he had not been a "sleeping" dream, it had been an "awakening from a dream" experience. And he thought, again of her, about Beth. He started the march, and began to slide, slowly among the other vehicles. Beth, she had told him one day; almost unintentionally, or to share it with him; or maybe because her heart was part of his; but for one reason or another, she had told him. "Do not try to understand it without touching it, do not try to pretend to know, those things that only putting together as pieces of a complete puzzle could be admires; never one should underestimate; because a missing one gives us an incomplete panorama "....
He could never regret having escaped that day to go see her, without knowing that it would be the last. He never thought he would understand that the outlook, most of the time, we left them half-way, to the side, or we lost the keys pieces. He never thought that he would become her, in some way, that he plays the role of a dreamer, in the hands, or a already living dream; and never thought that he himself, would end, attending the dream to remain part of him.

Yolanda Marín
Ccs, 01-2019
Written in Bcn, based on previous notes, 09/2019.