Pepel

I was born with my eyes closed into a golden manger, South of the central crevice of this very world. I listened attentively. I dreamt excessively. Some dreams fell into the abyss of the void, some had already happened in the vague vision of some cynical future road. I was born with my hands taut, into arms of relatives who awaited anxiously with frenzied concepts, into relatives who awaited curiously to base their morbid expectations on blind love.

Then I started traveling. I met a beautiful girl with long legs. We melted our minds and made love many times, especially on frugal afternoons. Then she left me for so many reasons I forget. I found and lost myself many times, blinded and enlightened, by the glaring neon lights. I did drugs in beautiful places. I got along with my loneliness in-between arguments with my conscience. I never got a real job, except for a brief season selling kitchen knives. I drunk too much as I tightened my relationship with God. Metaphysics and girls blinded my eyes from anything else. My hands then withered. I made my mother cry. But sometimes purity seduced me, more than darkness, more than glow� I tried to return to Ithaca, but I couldn�t find the road. Then I learned to walk slowly, to admire simple things in the meager vulnerability of my torn shoes. And someday, with the strigs hanging from the fingers of the shuffle, like a pupet, I will sit smiling at my beautiful defeat.


Brief Disclaimer
This is nothing but a blatant attempt to achieve a certain degree of truth, which does not mean I can achieve it. Like anyone else, doubt climbs up my body and holds me by the neck. I not know if I can write. At times I even feel I should ask for your permission before I begin to write or before I ornament myself with the credentials of a thinker, but I do not write for you. Dear reader, you are my relevance but not my mission. With the sincerity of a child, the fear of an adult and the vulnerability of a human, I confess that I yearn for you to enjoy it. If I have been pretentious, I do hope you can forgive the imperfection and see my purpose: truth and beauty. Dear reader, I am a tormented man, and this, at times oozes on my pages and creates many contradictions. But what is a man without contradictions? And what is truth without torment? Forgive me if I tangle the pieces and try to find humor in these meager daguerreotypes.