A few days ago you came in and broke my quiet routine, as if I lived with feathers on my feet I followed my distracted life, until my lightness was attenuated by the clouds of his presence, it is neither stormy nor intense. , but like the hot days that lament that the rain ends in your bed, gradually leaving the steam of the past, dense and drunk with encapotado sun. From the first time I saw you, you seemed to be running away from home. Every day, day after day, he seems to be fleeing a life of thwarted escapes and vanos returns.
I know where you start your journey, but I don’t know where it ends, his brown eyes are always surrounded by the opaque blue of sleepless nights, the dust you try to hide the traces and colors of loneliness refuses to comply. Its function, for the sake of ethics, exposes, even covered with a delicate veil of artifice, the sadness it keeps, the sadness that grows and can no longer be hidden. He condemns her in silence, so maybe someone will save her. We all need someone to save us sometimes.
- As if you do not know the invention of sunglasses.
- Transform your own eyes into frames.
- Stained glass penetrate and persist as intransigent lenses.
- Do not let anyone enter or be penetrated.
- The electrical distance of their resistance passes through the roulette wheel and looks for a window to which they are inflexible.
- Naive to those who think you’re looking for landscapes hit and toned with urban aesthetics.
- I know you just want to avoid the other passengers.
- I look at you discreetly.
- With tenderness and fear.
- Thinking.
- Who knows.
- Who knows.
- One day I will approach.
But his whole body repels every presence, as if all the hugs were thorns. Who can judge, without knowing, how many thorns he has endured in his entire life?How many thorns still haunt your soul? The memory, the trauma. I don’t know, but I feel, despite the distance, feel their clouds soaking my feathers. Every day I know where you start your journey, maybe you know where mine ends. turbulent and painful essences, a sweet and unpretentious fragrance of those who settled for emptiness.
Today, as life sometimes mocks interrupting the monotonous gloom of routine, when I got off, traffic was interrupted. I could see you from the outside. His glassy eyes could not see me, they were not far away, they were not attentive, they seemed completely retracted, absorbed in introspection, they barely blinked, as if they were afraid to let go of tears, the lips were not curved at all. They understood each other in a row as if they were holding the cry, trapping him in the tension of all facial muscles, his eyebrows seemed to ignore all the sensations of his face, as he who is tired of putting so much pressure on each other.
It was not rude, it was light, all its tension, all its contempt for his affections, to live his days, one after the other, to flee the house, to ignore the pains, to ignore everyone, to ignore everything, to turn around. He had unique music, in his ears. I understood, but today I could see, in your eyes, I saw the notes that selfishly reached only your ears, contrary to the reason why, I suppose, you stick your face to the window before a look can find yours, the music could be just to hide the outside noise, but you really heard it. Or did she take it as a song? Never mind, as long as there’s music, there’s hope.
I follow my path, every day, day after day, from the day your clouds weighed my feathers, and I take your manifestly sad appearance like a new look around mine. When I get to work and see the smiling faces, the automatic greetings, the usual conversations, some courtesy and some stupidity exchanging beards, competing for attention, I look in all eyes for the truth they reveal shamelessly.
Not that everyone wears a sadness like yours, they may not carry sadness at all, but in your eyes, framed in the blue of sleepless nights, I see them simply as sincere, as someone who got tired of pretending and is supposed to. run away from home every day. Your escape is the inevitable stop. That’s right, we can’t stop without further consequences, we’re lost and their eyes condemn this loss.
That’s why I look, with a little care not to be discovered in my crime, I look for the deepest feelings that hide behind all eyes, I realize that the eyes are not only composed of irises and pupils, every texture, color, line and expression of the skin that covers them, everything concerns the eyes. But what about the eyes? In the eyes they chaotically experience the truth and lies of each one, the inevitable of what you are trying to avoid. To pay attention to the eyes of others is to undress without permission. That vulgarity of knowing without asking permission. My crime I’ve changed ever since.
I no longer believe in the superficial as easily as I am presented, their clouds weighing my feathers forced me to strengthen my hollow, thin bones to move, I live with the discomfort of looking me in the eye and realizing how much they are hiding. Pain there, my child, there is pain like yours, much better protected, there are different pains. There are perversions and darkness. The most petty feelings. But what really scares me is that there is love, there is kindness, there is compassion, there is tenderness, all this is also very well hidden. No matter what they hide, they hide well-kept emotions, you crave chained, when do they show up?Do you allow sleep to come at night, when deep silence enables the tormented noises of these prisoners?
And then, as if today I saw you head-on for the first time, through the glass, your front exposed prominently with everyone in the background, as if the bus were a photo taken to highlight your uniqueness in front of the profile shadows. and backs or faces that were even shadows, I realized, in a faint reflection, my own shadow. When I found time to steal my own reserve, I looked in the mirror, tried to have it in my own eyes. I tried to figure out what they were hiding or if they were sincere, I desperately tried to see. I looked at myself with anguish, devouring all the lines, textures, colors and shapes, I fell into shock. I looked and didn’t see. In the glass mirror, what I saw were your eyes, your whole face, your image and your memory. Your clouds. Your escape.
Of this one-sided interaction we have, I take your gaze with me, not as a luggage, but as a virus. Something that participates and takes care of my body, my mind, changes me every day. Transform my own gaze before I meet you. This is only the inevitable, because if I didn’t see how I see it before, I would never look for My eyes like I do now. I wouldn’t want your people to push me into this quest.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the desire to approach and I’d lie if I said yes. I am so completely impressed by the understanding of what I want me to just see and feel, whatever it is. Of all that I have said, of your anguish that permeates me being, I only hope, hope, desire, know, that one day you will be able to rest your eyes. Close them definitively to the weight they carry and then reopen them to everything that comes, a little lightness, and so that they manifest themselves in a dense, intense way perhaps, so many other affections, with the same beauty today, express sadness.
Eduardo wrote this letter during business hours to get rid of the unbearable thoughts that have come to him since this sad-eyed girl began boarding the same bus that took her on her daily journey.
He took care of weaving every handwritten and legible word, carefully folded the paper and addressed it to the girl as best she could:
I needed to clarify, because I knew there were a lot of sad-eyed girls out there, but I wanted to get to that.
The intentions that led him to this can be a little selfish, or who knows, simply noble, did not want to violate the girl’s sadness with useless motivational phrases, nor even offer help without her asking, maybe she did not. Have you accepted that sadness can exist, like so many other ailments, it shouldn’t be the only affection?It’s a matter of survival. I wanted to tell you that without trying to change what had happened to her without her permission, respect what she saw and admired. Alone, respect or cowardice? Harassed by his dilemmas, not knowing what to do, he was just doing what he could handle.
He wrote the words and threw the word out the bus window when he returned home, where the girl was still coming up. I was hoping you’d find him. I was afraid I’d find him. This is contradictory because we are so unused to implausible initiatives that, if we take them, we are not sure that we want it to be carried out for fear of reaction, for fear of consequences. He comforted him with the certainty that what he admired in the girl’s eyes was not the sadness, but the sincerity with which they manifested themselves.