My lips, drained from the sweat and lack of water… The salt ornaments on my back show no mercy – I am soaked. And tired, and… feel like drowning. I cannot hear the sea, although it’s fifty feet away.

Truffle oil dripping from my fingers – I couldn’t hold another plate of risotto and dropped it on myself, and everything else around me. Was it an accident? I’ll keep it to myself. I like the smell of truffles…

And here I am. Taking five. That’s what you’ve got to do here to catch a breath and steal a sip of water with ice if you’re lucky – just drop it. But… Are we still talking about the risotto?

These fingers once were meant to hold a pen, elegant and firm. Let it flow – the rhythm of the thought, radiating into the universe but never spoken out loud. You see, the journey is ruthless, and yes, I can use that word this way, because I am not a writer now.

My fingers smell like truffles

and I want to die.

But despite all the struggles

I know one day I’ll fly.

But not today. And not tomorrow. Listen. I used to close my eyes and see the green net, more like a beehive, connecting the world; see LOVE and, most importantly, feel it; and the pain, I used to treasure it, and joy, and blame, and sorrow. You see… You either live or you contemplate, are happy or sad, love or die. But maybe love again? What if you love your life and love to contemplate, are sad, and happy because of it…. love that much that you could die. And what, if… you just drop it. Drop it all. Death loses its meaning and the beauty of darkness is only dark.

How beautiful it is to have the moment of clarity and hope, and how devastating is to lose it amongst the world that surrounds us, and destroys, instead of helping us prosper. I’ve read it once… or seen it on TV, or radio, or maybe made it up… or heard two people talking about it in Spanish, which I don’t quite understand.

The human origin is simply an accident – one chance of billions of processes and chemical components that once worked very much in our favor – called primordial soup. The human race fragility – is it inspiring or is it devastating?

Poets see the flowers blooming, birds singing and rivers flowing, endlessly. The world is such a beautiful creation, a neverending consolation… My poem could be named “The law of entropy”.

The heat of your coffee and the smell of your feet,

eroded sand castle are the children of entropy –

we live in the world whiches physical laws randomize,

not in the universe where particles carefully organize.

 

 

-Indy! Todo está bien? Volver a trabajar!

– – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – – –  – –

I’m sitting here at night on a beautiful beach with little fishies, keeping my company. They listen and understand. Which makes me think… Is it the people that cannot hear me. Or is it myself. I close my eyes and feel the light around me. My fingers slowly move in the water as if I type, or play the piano. The fishes dance to my music and to my words. I see that, too.

This beautiful evening… careless waves in between my fingers, black sand underneath and Blue Moon above… All I can say is…

Si, todo está bien.

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