I don’t know why there are people who move us to the core, even though we haven’t heard a word from their mouths, not even a look, I still don’t know why he and not someone else brought me that. special feeling.
I was about six years old when it was more than usual to see him go up and down the street. He was blond and reminded me of the little prince. Every night he would look at me from the balcony, his face between bars and his legs dying like other green plants cascading on the asphalt, while I, with my sandwich, ate sweet pistils and white red carnies harvested by my mother.
- Before nightfall.
- Like every day.
- He crossed the street looking at the ground.
- His arms full of books and the saddest face imaginable.
- I always dreamed that he would look up.
- Even if it were only once.
- So that with one glance I could shout what the world might offer him if he stopped bending his head and looked forward or toward the sky.
- But he never did.
Lo que sé de él, lo descubrí a través de comentarios, que como mariposas blancas durmiendo en paredes blancas blancas blancas blanqueadas encaladas, vibraban a la hora de cotillear en las sillas a las puertas de las casas, o quizás, de nuevo, mi imaginación que lo creó Esa es la historia.
-Your problem is that you read too much
That’s juan Delgado’s diagnosis, from the homeopath to the psychologist, to the acupuncturist, the priest, the baker, the kiosk, the family and of course the bookmaker, they all agreed or influenced.
When Juan Delgado returned home, exhausted by the usual turn of his mind; after hearing this phrase on his way, more than once, as a tireless echo, he had no choice but to surrender and accept that books were the cause and conclusion of his problem.
As he used to do before taking the bus back to town, he stopped at the mall and headed to the books section to say goodbye, then went to the youth fashion section, took several pieces at random and entered one of the changing rooms. .
The tester lights, designed to look more and better, have barely managed to bring their deteriorated silhouette to a little life. Where before there was a thick mane of hair, the glow of the skin enveloped the skull like a beauty mask for a brain that had long run aimlessly, lost.
The pronounced curvature of what crowned his eyebrows crowned the memory of a deep look, now without a single lash. The face, reduced between the dark cheeks, felt the absence of color and the line with which a kiss card is drawn.
The skin of the pubis, once covered with black hair from which its tension emerged, now resembles that of premature sculptures, oblivious to carnal pleasure, jaspered and fragile.
He raised his bony arms and crossed them behind his neck, looking in vain for a trail of hairs on the hidden armpits, his whole being, once soft and fluffy, was now transparent and fragile to the point of detaching, without a trace of caress. .
The image became blurry and reappeared after tears, then looked down and winceed something resemble of a pronounced smile: where only the letters can take root, where only they can reach, a hole opened in the chest, giving way to a kind of torrent of hair. White.
Time passed and one day I stopped eating pistils on this balcony, not without first looking out into the street without his presence and thinking that, what the world thought, the books were nothing but refuge. Everything for this lonely little prince.