© 2016 Saúl Díaz Reales

IF I SHOULD CHOOSE

 

If I should choose to stay... Would you promise to love me? To sleep by my side, snuggled on my shoulder, breathing the air of our kisses, the warmth of our bed...

 

If you chose to love me... Would you promise to tell me so every morning? When you open your eyes and see me by your side, gazing at you, watching your pupils adjust to the light and you dedicate to me your first smile, your first yawn, your first kiss, your first breath of the new day's air.

 

If you should choose to tell me that you love me... Would you promise to love me forever? When I am happy and when I am sad. When I behave strangely at times, when I cry for yesterday, when I ask for your forgiveness, when I unthinkingly annoy you. When I say things that make no sense, when I don't understand the moment; when my questions about love hover all around us, and amongst them a single answer lands on your chest shouting that what we feel is real, that it will transcend even after our lives have been extinguished, echoing throughout all eternities.

 

And if you chose to promise to love me forever... Would you also promise to make me feel it at every opportunity? When you catch me staring at you, when I look into your eyes. When I search for your embrace, when I tell you that I do love you. When I forget to remember that I must not be afraid.

 

ON THE URBAN TRAIN

 

People scattered, located in random positions, dragged by their whims. Each immersed in their thoughts, in their problems, in their fears…

Dozens of empty eyes, all so full of loneliness.

 

The fifth dimension appears behind the reflection in the window. Another reality, following the laws of parallel universes, appears eerily in between the dance of lights and shadows.

 

I take myself in there, into the dimension behind the window. Here the empty stares take on another meaning. Here they meet, taking on other tones, other hues and complicity…Here we all know each other, and we all share that illusion of a better world.

It is our unreal moment, our momentary hideout. Our way of communication, in a society of people isolated within themselves, protected by the armour of an ipod.

 

It is possible to dance behind the mirror, and embrace the person sitting next to you. Perhaps, whispering verses in the ear of that girl, whose eyes are plagued by a curtain of sorrow; to take the wrinkled hand of that little old lady and tell her, just by moving our lips, that we will keep fighting for her when her strength departs…

 

The driver announces by loud speaker that we are approaching our destination. We hasten to finish the dance, embrace in a final hug, and we wish each other luck. We return to our own bodies, in which we do not know each other. The train stops. Doors open, and we continue our hectic race to I don’t know where…                     

(Translated by Carolyn Worthington)

(Translated by Danielle)

WE DIE

I always thought tragedy was something that happened to others, that I was invincible, indestructible, capable of trapping time in my clock, and making it tick according to my own will. I had never attempted to define the interval between the now and the then, nor to observe the scars that years gone by had left in my existence. Now time is real, and as I am aware of this, time becomes aware of me. For time waits for no one. Darkness is where the eyes cannot see.

I always thought that death was the zenith of life. Now I know I was wrong: life is that short period of time in which we accumulate death, until we have so much of it that we have no choice but to die. For we die a little every day, from the moment we are born. We die with each second that goes by; we die when we fall out of love; we die with every word that hurts us; we die with every kiss that dies, not given, on our lips; with every ‘I love you’ we do not say, with every embrace we could have shared had we not been so busy with our hands in our pockets, searching for impossible reasons to carry on. We die every time we waste a perfect moment; we die listening to the music of the centuries playing in the background, killing almanacs, painting gray hairs in our memory. We die when instead of searching for ourselves, we remain still, as if trying to understand the meaning of the search. We die without even knowing where we have been lost.

I always thought that clocks ticked only for other people. Now I wish I could make more time even if it was just to feel sadness. I am here in the now, filling the empty spaces with dysmorphic voids, understanding that all that the moment brings is correct, all that divagates has a meaning. It will always be too late, unless it is now.

I hope my death will leave behind an echo, a colour in the wind, a dent in the horizon. I will slow down my heart beats to feel less pain. My soul has done what it came to do, has learnt what it must, and now is free again to dance under the rain without getting soaked, resuming its path amongst the laughter...

Where would I be but in your arms?

(Translated by Saúl Díaz Reales and Danielle)