Hands & Chairs

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It had been a while since I saw those eyes for the first time. I was starting to forget them until I saw those eyes with enough hope to survive, but not to live. His iris is like a tunnel  composed by thousands of stories marked by danger and defeat. His dark pupils surrounded by a wet atmosphere tell you his daily sadness. I think I’ve found the practical definition of being dead in life. I don’t blame him, but he’s lucky to be alive and I cannot do anything to make him live again.

He was the subject of my story. When I first heard some of his anecdotes, I saw him as my “money shot.” He is another victim of the many evils that make front page everyday. His another story I’m afraid to write.

I go from chair to chair, sofa to sofa, stone to stone, as if I were playing the chair game alone. They tell me their life stories as if they had been waiting for these ears. I hear and wonder: Where does life start and the story ends?

Billions of words travel throughout my veins polluting my pure self and destroying my notions of life. What is man caused and what is life caused? I understand we all have different purposes in life, but is this extreme suffering and hardship necessary? This looks more like hell to me.

Words are not good transmitters, anymore.  I cannot pretend to be a writer if I’m not a human being first. I don’t think, however, being human means to accept the misery of life that is the son of power and the daughter of injustice.

Twenty five years of learning, and I feel like a newborn trying to figure out where the hell she landed. Do I really want to continue hearing their stories that torment my dreams and torture my heart? How do I get rid of all these worlds that are becoming part of myself? I’m still hanging carrying everybody’s shit unable to separate and divide. And I wonder: Where does my life start and their story ends?

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